


The Decade of Dreaming

by twixt_haw_and_thorne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU no Adrestian Empire/Church of Seiros/TWSITD/Crests, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd-centric, Everyone Is Good, Except Glenn lives though, First Time, Fluff, Growing Up, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Polyamorous Pack, Polyamory, Soft Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Threesome - M/M/M, loose plot, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28403391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twixt_haw_and_thorne/pseuds/twixt_haw_and_thorne
Summary: Fódlan has only two factions--the Kingdom of Faerghus to the North and the Leicester Alliance to the south. Everything is at peace and balanced between them. The spirits of the earth and sky bless a chosen few with their powers (called Spirit-Sighted) to keep that balance and all is well. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, after the tragic death of his parents, assumes the role of King at thirteen and rules wisely and with compromise and diplomacy, never again taking up a weapon against a living person, using his strength to help his people rather than hurt. They are in peaceful negotiations of trade with Almyra and Dimitri is helplessly in love with Khalid, their mischievous young prince.But Felix keeps dreaming of conflict. Felix keeps dreaming of an Empire, of a red flag with a two-headed eagle, of massive clashing armies, of a blood-soaked field of battle.And he's not alone.
Relationships: Combinations of all five of them, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	1. Eyes and Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to know what would happen if Dimitri never turned to darkness and there was no Empire, no TWSITD, no Church of Seiros, and if the magic was given by nature, rather than Crests of dragon blood. I just wanted a soft Dimitri who loves everyone around him and is loved by them all.
> 
> Warnings for this prologue: minor violence, canonical death of Dimitri's father and stepmother and Dedue's sister

There was a ringing in Dedue’s ears that he couldn’t name. Was it the ringing of steel upon steel? Or was it that the explosive spells bursting around him like overripe apples had ripped apart his eardrums? Or was it just sheer terror that the little sister whose hand he held was not moving anymore? It was impossible to tell. He knew only that, when he looked up, he was staring at the back of someone’s blue cloak, trimmed in white fur--the colors of the enemy.

His village was gone, reduced to the ashes that he now knelt in, cradling the limp body of his only family, so perhaps he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, would it? Surely it made more sense that he was under the influence of some delusion than someone--a child?--of the enemy had protected him from a killing blow?

The soldier, seeing the child, dropped his sword. It splashed in pools of blood--it didn’t seem possible that there was so much. “P-Prince Dimitri?” he gasped.

Dedue didn’t know what was happening. They were speaking a language he didn’t know. His sister was dead. His sister was  _ dead  _ and so were his parents for all he knew. The flowers of Duscur were burning, and a child had saved his life. And that child turned around and fixed him with wide, watery eyes, and murmured something else he didn’t understand. Cradling his sister’s corpse, Dedue shook his head; the ringing in his ears might as well be the language the child spoke for all the good communication would do here.

The soldier fled. Dedue didn’t know why. They… they were  _ all  _ fleeing, casting spells and shooting arrows as they did--as if the people of Duscur they’d already killed could die a second time. There was no one else to shoot. No one else was moving.

Dedue collapsed. The desire to perish next to his sister and his village was stronger than the urge to run after the foreign cavalry and try to take them down with him. Death was stronger than revenge. He touched her face as the shouts of the retreating army fled into the distance; back south, where they had come from. He touched her face and she did not smile or pout. Her dress was singed and bloody. Absently, he tried to brush the scorch marks away from the hem. It was her best dress after all.

The child did not flee. He was so small, so delicate-looking, yet he stared into the flames with new vengeance in his eyes. And that was a language Dedue didn’t understand either. Why should a man look at the destruction caused by his fellows and feel wrath like that?

He didn’t care. He broke, finally allowing the tears to pass through the cracks of his shock and flood into the bottomless dam of grief. It seemed unreasonable that he could even cry with so much burning and heat around him, but cry he did, over every person, home, and flower petal he had lost that day. In one fell swoop, everything he knew was ripped out from under him. And he didn’t even have the solace of falling into that blissful death beside them.

It was a scream that made him look up. The child had walked away, stumbled into the middle of the carnage where a hundred Duscur corpses lay; a hundred of Duscur, and two of Faerghus. He screamed for them, Dedue assumed, grieving for what  _ he  _ lost.

He watched something red and bright cut through the air, like a sword, but it came from nowhere, with no one to wield it. Only when that rip in the burning air grew did Dedue see them; two women, with faces somber as rain and hair like starlight stepping through from the other side. Spirits of some kind, Dedue could only guess. But they were not here for him.

They embraced the Faerghus child as sweetly as if he were their own. Indeed, they looked more like they were Fódlan spirits, with skin pale like his. Dedue could only watch as a bright light surrounded the three of them for just a moment, consuming their bodies and then all of Duscur.

Dedue was still sitting, his sister’s head cradled in his lap, when everything bled back into the ugly color of fire from the white light. But the spirits were gone. Just the child on his knees, panting as though he’d come from a long journey without the time to rest.

Dedue picked up a fallen spearhead. It had been snapped off the handle, so it was little longer than a sword now. It would do. But a little white hand caught his arm before he could plunge it into his breast. The child had returned to his side and now, with streaks of wet in the grime of his cheeks, he shook his head. There was no longer vengeance in his eyes. And--they weren’t blue anymore but green as the dark, faraway depths of the sea.

With a strength that belied his small and delicate body, the boy pried the spear from Dedue’s shaking grip and threw it aside, putting his arms about him.

“Dimitri,” he said softly.

* * *

It was dark and the fires had mostly died by now. Those that still lived threw beautiful colors into the sky, sparks that would live on. Dimitri sat with Dedue the whole time, for hours while they both cried, first one, then the other, then both of them in distressing chorus. Now it was only the song of death in the air, the crackle and smell of burning bodies. They had no more tears left to cry.

**_“Prince Dimitri!”_ **

Dimitri looked up through the bloodbath and saw more living things, living people trampling over the dead without regard for them. Horses and men. Men whose faces were tightly pinched with horror for him.

“Glenn…” Dimitri said in quiet acknowledgment as the young knight swept off his still-running horse and stumbled down, yanking him to his feet in an embrace so hard that he might have been pressed into a living rock and not allowed to move. “I’m fine.” His voice was hollow, and it would be for some time. But he was alive.

Rodrigue, Gustave, and the castle healer, a gentle man named Cornelius, were soon in attendance, all fussing and prodding and hugging and sobbing. To be surrounded by life when he spent a day here, as dead and unmoving as the Duscur people, felt too strange to be right.

It was Glenn who noticed Dedue, but he didn’t reach for his sword. Dedue wished he would. At this point, who would give him the mercy he desired? At least then he would die here, in his homeland, surrounded by the arms of his people and buried in the scarred bosom of his beloved village. “Who is this?” Glenn asked quietly while Cornelius fussed over minor cuts and burns that the prince had sustained.

“My friend,” was all that the prince could say, since he didn’t know his name. “He’s my friend.”

Rodrigue and Gustave were bent over the two white bodies of the invaders Dimitri had mourned. They were both such strong and stoic looking men, yet they broke just as Dimitri had. Glenn wouldn’t go near.

“Your friend,” he said softly, his eyes straying piteously over the little girl Dedue held, who had died hours ago. “Should we… help bury the girl?”

Dimitri nodded, but when they approached Dedue, he held to her tighter and refused to let go. Dimitri came to him then. “What do you want?” he asked softly, gesturing at the girl. Dedue knew what he was asking, even if the words didn’t make sense. Somehow, the calm authority reflected in the new darkness of Dimitri’s eyes was easy to understand.

Dedue watched as the two other men began to carry the two corpses they mourned to their horses. He didn’t know where they were going with them, but he did not want his sister taken away from home. He gestured to the fire. She would become sparks and return to the spirit world. He would not let her rot in a land that was not her home.

Her favorite dress burned away so easily, and her flesh peeled away from the bone to the pink muscle beneath. There wasn’t a single flower left to ease her passage into the other world; they were all dead and gone. Dedue watched it all, and Dimitri held his hand.

“Come with me,” Dimitri said softly, watching the little girl become spirit sparks. Once again, his eyes spoke in a language Dedue could recognize when the sounds made little sense.

And Dedue agreed to join Dimitri and Glenn on the horse only because, in that moment, he didn’t want to let go of his hand.

* * *

Faerghus somehow felt colder than Duscur, even though it was in the south of Dedue’s homeland. It was midnight, but the enormous stone castle that loomed like a shadow over the snow was buzzing with activity, with shouts of anger, cries of grief, and the wails of those who looked upon the bodies of King Lambert and Queen Patricia and threw themselves to the ground; wails so loud they could shake the bricks loose. Dedue was shrouded in Glenn’s fur-lined cloak, but Dedue didn’t mind if these people recognized him and tore him apart. He was only here to hold Dimitri’s hand; thankfully, Dimitri hadn’t yet let go and didn’t seem to want to do so.

Glenn swept the two children off to the side and up into a small stone staircase. Whispering servants hardly looked at them as they passed, an irregularity both Glenn and Dimitri were grateful for. And Dimitri still held Dedue’s hand.

They were ushered into a room that must have been as big as Dedue’s entire home and half again as tall. It wasn’t as warm, though, all grey stone and austere tapestries of knightly figures. There was a fire, though, and huddled around it were three children like themselves.

It was the first time in so many hours that Dimitri let go of Dedue’s hand. He didn’t have a choice. A small brunette, a blonde girl, and a tall redhead had swooped in on Dimitri and seized him up tightly in a knot, mimicking the sounds of the people in the castle courtyard below; of grief and misery, tightly punctured by relief and coos of comfort. Dimitri cried for them when he thought he could cry no more, his beloved friends, and allowed them to stroke his hair and hold him tight and kiss his forehead.

No one mentioned his eyes.

Dedue just watched. Dimitri had life to return to, but Dedue did not. Only the redhead broke away from the pack to approach him carefully, as though he were a frightened animal. He spoke to him gently, but Dedue didn’t understand his words or his eyes, no matter how kind they were.

“This is Dedue,” Dimitri finally said and all of the other children turned to look at the young man from Duscur. “He’s my friend.”


	2. Child King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri is crowned King at age thirteen, and he wrestles with something inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: some suicidal thoughts
> 
> For fic updates and (sometimes) art, you can follow me @Mechanist_Macha

Cornelius visited the prince in his room the next morning. Some of the grief had died down; or rather, people retreated to their rooms in exhaustion to grieve more quietly. Glenn had checked in with breakfast for all five of them earlier--the prince, Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid, and Dedue--and they were all picking at the remains when the healer arrived. Dedue had not eaten anything, nor had anyone slept, but Dimitri was looking weary, like he might fall over at any moment.

“May I come in, my prince?” Cornelius murmured in at the children. Dimitri just nodded, Sylvain’s longer arms wrapped around him as he lifted his head from his friend’s chest. Sylvain was by far the best among them at the act of comfort. Sure, he often misused his powers of charm, but when it came down to it, he could soothe a raging wyvern with a smile. Dimitri felt safe here, with Ingrid giving him little encouraging smiles, and Felix sitting so close to him. Dedue hadn’t been shunted aside, but he didn’t know them, so he sat in the armchair in the corner of the room while the other four had dragged the blankets and pillows to the rug by the remnants of last night’s fire.

The healer closed the door and rolled up his sleeves as he knelt next to Dimitri, not wanting to make him move when he must be in too much misery to move. He checked the burns he’d sustained; pink and raw, but they would certainly heal. The man glanced at Dedue in the corner. “Is there… any way I could check your friend? He seems like he also needs attention…”

Dimitri looked up, lifted his soft chin and looked plaintively at Dedue. He had managed, during their sleepless night, to suss out his name, but Dedue seemed none too keen to talk any more than that.

“Dedue?”

The young man looked up.

Dimitri smiled; a tiny, fragile, breakable smile. “Would you consent to be healed?”

Again, even though the words themselves were just noises to him, Dimitri’s eyes somehow conveyed his meaning as though he were projecting his intent directly to his mind. But Dedue curled his arms around himself in the armchair and looked away. He didn’t intend to live much longer. What was the point? As if one could erase his sins like scars, running away hand in hand with the enemy while his sister burned…

Dimitri looked at Cornelius. “Could you please come back later?” Dedue wasn’t the only one enthralled by the power of his eyes. Cornelius looked into them and nodded. The Prince was impossible to deny.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Wait…” Dimitri placed a staying hand on Cornelius’. “What’s going on out there? Who is ruling the people?” He looked concerned, and for good reason. His father had vehemently instilled the ideal of people in need of a leader into his son since he was an infant. Dimitri worried they were running amok without someone to shepherd them. He did not yet understand the strength of people.

Cornelius smiled and touched the back of his hand. “Everything is fine, Your Highness. Your uncle has taken charge for now. He will act as the regent until you’re of--”

_ “No.” _

Cornelius stopped short, unblinking as Dimitri’s gentle expression became one of hatred and even  _ violence.  _ “I will not have that man lead the people. He thinks of nothing but himself. Is there no one else who could be a regent?”

Cornelius swallowed. He’d never seen such a look in the compassionate prince who’d once begged to be taught how to sew. “I… I will ask the advisors to come. I’m only a healer, after all.”

Dimitri softened once more, and perhaps it was all the priest’s imagination that there had been some dark  _ beast  _ lurking in him. “Very well. Thank you.”

Sylvain squeezed Dimitri’s slender little shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said easily as the door came to click closed once more. “I’m sure there’s tons of capable people who can lead the Kingdom while you’re still learning.” Ingrid and Felix exchanged a look. Somehow, they didn’t think so.

* * *

It was not advised that the Prince leave his room so soon after the death of his parents, but he left anyway, his friends trailing behind him at dusk while Dedue stayed behind, still unspeaking. Normally a quad of children roaming around would have been ignored or even scolded, but these weren’t just any children after all. The people bowed and murmured condolences to the prince as he passed, and each time, he just nodded at them, solemn and perhaps a bit too adult for his age.

His Uncle and the late King’s older brother Rufus was already seated on the throne when Dimitri arrived, having a heated argument with the royal advisors and others who were loyal to Lambert. Everyone turned when the great doors swung forward to admit the prince and his little retinue of noble children. Rufus frowned, but he stood up to greet him a bit too quickly. “Prince Dimitri, you should be resting,” he insisted, shooting a glare at Cornelius off to his left as if this were somehow his fault.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Dimitri said calmly. “But one can only rest for so long when there is work to be done.”

The advisors and the rest bowed to Dimitri, all seeming at once relieved and concerned in regards to his presence. But he was not here to be bowed at and deferred to. Not without reason, not without discussion. He took a seat at the table in a chair that was far too big for him, and his friends all crowded behind him.

Rufus’ scowl deepened. “I don’t think this is the appropriate place for children right now.”

Dimitri’s eyes flashed. “Do not presume we are mere children, Uncle. We have a vested interest in the future of this nation, even if we were not the children of kings or noblemen.” He looked around at Rodrigue, at Glenn, Gustave, Margrave Gautier, Count Galatea, the others who were so loyal to his father and had to wonder. “Furthermore, you are not qualified to lead this Kingdom. Step down, Uncle. The throne does not belong to you.”

Rufus’ face went from pale like Dimitri’s to red and blotchy in a mere moment. “How  _ dare  _ you?” he hissed, gripping the arms of the throne tightly, as if he’d die before letting go of it. “You are a mere  _ child,  _ do you think  _ you  _ are qualified to rule?”

“Not at all,” Dimitri said calmly. If he was honest, he never wanted that responsibility. “But I know exactly what you will do with the power you would wield as King. You will continue to rain destruction down on Duscur.”

“After they  **_murdered_ ** the King and Queen!” Rufus spluttered. At this point, while advisors would normally interject with thoughts of their own, they kept silent, intrigued by this fight between a stoic child and his power-lusting Uncle. “Of  _ course  _ we will destroy them! We should!”

“No,” Dimitri said, not rising to his bait at all. “Faerghus invaded Duscur at my father’s command. Ten years ago, it was Sreng that we annexed half of.  _ We  _ are the oppressors, Uncle. And we should be speaking of peace.” He gestured to the advisors. Glenn was actually smiling at him, nodding in encouragement. “Peace is difficult to achieve after all we’ve done. We’ll need to make reparations, and it won’t make up for half the things we have taken from Sreng and Duscur. It is no wonder the Leicester Alliance doesn’t wish to trade with us. We are warmongers.”

Rufus jabbed an accusing finger at him as if it were a knife. “You have forgotten your own father’s sacrifice, your stepmother’s!”

_ “No,”  _ Dimitri cried this time, loosing a bit of the beast within him. It was not a beast of fury, but of pain. “I…” Tears welled up in his eyes again and he bowed his head, biting his lip. No… if he cried now, they wouldn’t take him seriously, and then Rufus would rule and grind Duscur into dust...

“Shut the hell up,” Felix suddenly snapped from behind Dimitri’s chair, drawing everyone’s eyes to him. He was small for a thirteen-year-old, but he was larger than life when he spoke, every single time. And it was usually to come to Dimitri’s defense, one of his most beloved friends. “You old fucks just want to wage war! You’re the same advisors who told the King he  _ should  _ go grab Sreng and Duscur,  _ you’re  _ the ones who got them killed!”

_ “Felix,”  _ Rodrigue hissed down the table, but his feisty son would not be silenced.

“When you pick a fight, you have to be ready to die,” Felix growled. “How many more are we going to kill until you’re satisfied? Is a bit of land worth killing and dying for?”

Dimitri’s eyes shone as his friends, one by one, came to his defense.

“No one wants to live their whole lives fearing being sent to war,” Ingrid butted in.

“And what is the point of living a whole life fighting?” Sylvain demanded, crossing his arms. He looked a little more intimidating than the rest, given he was older than his friends. “I bet if you asked the people, they wouldn’t want to!”

The youngest advisor at the table was Glenn, but then, he wasn’t actually an appointed advisor. He just sat by his father’s side. The  _ real  _ youngest was a woman of half-Srengi descent named Tarim. King Lambert had appointed her at the request of Rodrigue, given that Tarim was a distant cousin of his late wife’s. But Lambert had never once listened to her, despite how intelligent and productive she was. Since her appointment, she’d learned to just be silent--but here she sensed, in front of the Prince, her ideas might have some merit with the audience.

“Your Highness,” she said quietly, directing her voice to Dimitri. “I wholeheartedly agree with you. From a strictly practical standpoint, even if we were trying to bring more fertile land to Faerghus’ borders, the army has been burning the land along the way.” She flinched when Rufus and some of the older councilors glared at her, but Dimitri smiled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“Yes… you’re right. I have seen it myself first hand.” He frowned at the rest of them. “That stops  _ today.  _ Who else could be an effective Regent?”

_ “I am the only one of the Blaiddyd bloodline!”  _ Rufus spat, clearly hedging on madness. “There is no one else who is closer to the throne than I am!”

“Unfortunately,” Gustave spoke up solemnly. “He’s right, Prince Dimitri. Until you come of age, no one is suited to the role but your Uncle.”

Silence fell as Rufus sat back, pleased with himself.

“Well…” Dimitri drew himself up but it didn’t make him look much taller. “Why can’t I take the throne?”

The silence was now more stunned than resigned.

“It is custom to wait until your adulthood,” Rodrigue said slowly.

“Is there an actual law in place?” Dimitri retorted. Rodrigue glanced at the other council members, then shook his head. “Then I would posit that there is no one closer to the throne than  _ I  _ am.”

“Right,” Rufus sneered, shaking his head. “Then let us vote, shall we? Letting a mere  _ child  _ rule should be an interesting choice, shouldn’t it?” Clearly, he expected to win the majority vote. When he did not, he practically exploded in fury as he stormed from the throne room. Dimitri smiled at Tarim, who was the tiebreaker. The older advisors seemed to favor Rufus’ idea of continuing the ruination of Duscur and the occupation of Sreng, but Dimitri remembered their faces. Old men, all of them. He would change that.

* * *

Dimitri didn’t want to be crowned King. But without a coronation, his ideals of peace couldn’t be put into practice and would just be considered naive notions to be passed from the lips of the young and inexperienced. He had to prove that peace was more than a fantasy. He paced nervously in front of an enormous mirror two days later, fussing with the fur cape and the braid Ingrid had woven into his long hair.

“Knock knock,” Sylvain called, smiling as he sauntered into the room. “Aw, look at how handsome you are, Your Royal Majesty.” He bowed in an exaggerated fashion and laughed at himself. “Hey, don’t look so nervous. Everyone’s prepared to guard you with their lives.”

Dimitri balked. That was the sort of thing he didn’t need to hear. “I want to create a world where no one would  _ have _ to,” he mumbled. As if he wanted anyone to die for him.

“I know.” Sylvain came forward and laid his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. “That’s what I like best about you, Mitya. You’re good, you’re  _ kind. _ We’ll all be much better off when you’re King.”

Dimitri tried not to blush when Sylvain touched him, but it was difficult. The young Gautier had just presented, so his newly minted alpha hormones wafted through the air every time he breathed or tossed his apple-red hair. But Dimitri had bigger things to worry about anyway. “You really think I can do this?” he asked, sounding so much smaller and less confident than he had in the throne room.

“I  _ know  _ you can,” Sylvain whispered, giving him that cool, lopsided smile that always put everyone around him at ease. “And you won’t be alone. We’re all here to help. Even my cranky father!”

Dimitri turned around in his arms and embraced him. “You… won’t abandon me?”

Sylvain was genuinely shocked. “As if I would!” he interjected and returned the hug twice as hard. He laughed when Dimitri squeezed and lifted him off the floor. “Easy there, big guy! You forget your own strength too easily.” He ruffled Dimitri’s hair, pecked him on the cheek, and departed to find his allotted place in the coronation. Dimitri looked in the mirror again and touched his cheek where Sylvain had kissed him.

His parents were gone. He was unbearably sad--but they hadn’t been good people. They had loved him, but they hadn’t done good things for the world. It almost felt like he  _ shouldn’t  _ be missing them. He didn’t know how to manage it, these feelings of turmoil that he felt might crack his lips open, but he knew he didn’t have to manage it alone. In his room, tucked away and refusing to eat or speak or sleep was Dedue. Was he wrong in saving him? Dedue had no one now. Was a life with no one more cruel than a swift and merciful death?

Even walking down the carpeted aisle holding the scepter and case, aware of all the eyes watching him with love and malice and pity, he knew he could never just worry about one man as the King. And he would do it anyway. He would worry about every single one of them, from the poorest farmer to the wealthiest noble, citizen to foreigner, man to woman, alpha to omega, adult to child.

He did not kneel to take the crown without speaking. It was tradition to speak  _ after  _ he was crowned, not before, but he aimed to cast off the shackles of those traditions.

“When I was in Duscur, the spirits gave me a vision,” he said strongly over the crowd. His eyes, which had just begun to blue again, darkened deeply, a sharp and bewitchingly ugly contrast to the rest of his paleness. His people gasped, and a word went round and round like a cyclone of unstoppable wind.  _ Spirit-sighted. _ “And they showed me a world much like this one, covered in death.” He held the scepter high. “And I will do all that is within my power to prevent it!”

When he finally knelt and the coronet of gold was placed on his brow, a chorus of  **_hail hail_ ** rang throughout the hall. Those who had come in disbelief and doubt in the child now feared and respected him. The spirits had chosen him, they had seen the proof of it in his changing eyes.

Later that night, when Rufus tried to stab Dimitri in his bed, the beast of grief returned to him only for a moment.

“I’m sorry stepmother, father,” he murmured as Glenn, his personal bodyguard, gutted Rufus through. “I will commit peace to my heart this time.”

_ This time.  _

* * *

Dedue watched what little he could glimpse of everything that was happening from Dimitri’s room, meaning that he listened when Dimitri talked to him, and understood things through the spirits that darkened his eyes, even while he was pondering why he was still alive. He never spoke back to Dimitri. He’d never been a very talkative person before, but he had been happy at least. Now he didn’t have that. But somehow, watching Dimitri return to his room and dress for bed, listening to him have frustrated, one-sided conversations with himself about how difficult it was to stop a war, it was soothing in a way.

And many nights, when Dedue sat by his bed, Dimitri would smile and take his hand, and fall asleep while still holding it. Dedue just gazed at their locked fingers. His sister used to hold his hand. But Dimitri was not his sister, was nothing like his loud, rambunctious, and resilient sister. So why was holding his hand so grounding?

Glenn, who watched over Dimitri while he slept, had tried to talk to Dedue, but to no avail. He managed to communicate via hand gesture well enough when he asked Dedue to move aside so he could check Dimitri’s breathing or glanced down at a noise that came through the window. Dedue paid him no mind. He paid no mind to anyone at all except Dimitri.

“I didn’t even know how well we ate,” Dimitri said one night, climbing under the covers and reaching for Dedue’s hand. “It wasn’t even like we  _ needed  _ more land to grow on.” He shook his head. “Tarim says that it seems we annexed Sreng because of a small incident where they passed through our territory without knowing. And she said they had no concept of borders… that’s nice, isn’t it?” he yawned, laying back on the pillows, which a maid had fluffed for him already. “I wish we didn’t need borders. But imagine taking away someone’s home just because they accidentally crossed into yours?”

Dedue just looked at their hands, understanding only what Dimitri’s spirit eyes allowed him to--which was to say, only large concepts and the recognition of the word ‘Sreng.’

“Dedue?”

He looked up miserably.

Dimitri patted his bed. “Will you sleep next to me? This bed is large enough for two. Probably four people, honestly. It’s… a bit much, I think. Might as well use it.”

Dedue hesitated. It wasn’t the first time Dimitri had asked, but he had always declined. Why? Why bother doing or not doing anything? He was dead inside. He climbed awkwardly onto the bed and lay there, still holding Dimitri’s hand, close enough to feel the prince’s warm breath as he drifted off to sleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You want to send  _ horses  _ to Duscur?” the old advisor exclaimed, laying the parchment down. “Your Majesty,  _ why?” _

Dimitri still didn’t like sitting in his father’s throne, so he just sat at the head of the table with everyone else. He’d also declined to wear the heavy crown. Aside from the fact that it was made for adults, he just felt so pompous wearing it. “Well,” he said, gesturing at Tarim. “It was her idea. A  _ good  _ idea. We’re sending them food, but if we send some horses to plow for them, then they could grow their own food eventually.”

The advisor sniffed, frowning. “Regardless, this is almost a tenth of our cavalry, Your Majesty. We can’t spare that many.”

“Of course we can,” Dimitri shot back, lifting his chin in what he hoped was an authoritative fashion. “Since the cavalry will be cut down anyway, I see no reason why we couldn’t.”

That was the part the advisors hated the most; cutting down their impressive army. They called their forces  _ necessity,  _ but the rest of the world called them  _ brutish,  _ and it was obvious even to Dimitri, as a child, why. So much of their funds, their food, their clean water, their housing, their teachers went into the enormous machine of their military. Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier were more practical, reminding Dimitri that  _ some  _ defenses were always necessary, but what they had was excessive to the extreme.

The remaining advisors withheld their comments. Dimitri had already dismissed two of the older and more crude of their council for spewing hatred and refusing to see reason when it came to opening their borders to trade, marking all outsiders as thieves and swindlers. Even  _ terrorists.  _

“Right, so it’s done,” Dimitri smiled, signing his name on the document and reaching for his signet ring (another thing he hated to wear) to mark the wax with his father’s seal.

The meeting was done for the day and he was so exhausted. But he’d done it. After an hour of fighting, he’d managed to send healers, food, building materials, and horses to Duscur. For an hour before that, he listened to Tarim dictate what it was likely that the Sreng people would need. They’d have to work on it tomorrow.

“Done for the day?” Felix asked Dimitri a bit anxiously when he finally walked out of the throne room. Felix was always waiting for him, and Dimitri adored that about him. Like Glenn, Felix had a sharp tongue, but when it came to Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain, Felix was always following them around, and was even known to sulk when he had to go home to the Fraldarius Estate.

“Yes,” Dimitri nodded. “Do you want to train?” Felix’s eager nod told him everything. “Okay, but let me get something to eat first.”

Felix followed him to the kitchens, where the servants greeted their littlest King with coos, fussing over him. “So thin, have you eaten today?” “We have sweet buns for you!” “You must have had a long day, haven’t you? Here, eat!”

A part of Dimitri was a little annoyed that they treated him like a child. But he never complained, because he knew he  _ was  _ one. “Sweet buns!” he gasped. “Thank you, Matilda!” He eagerly tucked in, his stomach growling. There was so much work to do, but he wanted to do it. He couldn’t bear to think what might have happened to Duscur or Sreng if his Uncle had become King. “Felix, do you want…? Oh, right, you don’t like sweets.”

“I already ate,” Felix shook his head. Dimitri was halfway into his second bun when Felix impatiently tugged on his sleeve. “Come  _ on,”  _ he begged with his infamous pout. Dimitri couldn’t help but oblige him.

“Hey Felix?” Dimitri asked, both of them panting and coated in sweat as they sat down to break from an hour of swinging heavy wooden swords. “Do you think I should stop training?”

_ “What?”  _ Felix snapped, alarmed. “Why?”

“Well, I was thinking,” Dimitri chewed his lip nervously. “I mean, I’m trying to make Faerghus a peaceful country. Some people will always be needed to fight, but shouldn’t I set the example and be more, I don’t know… peaceful?” He shrugged. “I don’t know… father always said that a King has to set an example for his subjects.”

Felix frowned. “I mean… I guess.” This time with Dimitri was all he had anymore now that he was a busy King. He was not thrilled at the prospect of giving it up. “But you’re the King… people will come after you,” he tried to reason.

“But that’s why I have guards like Glenn,” Dimitri pointed out.

“But what if Glenn fails?” Felix retorted in haste.

A dark look crossed over Dimitri’s eyes, and they changed from blue to shadow. Felix  _ hated  _ this new power of his. He preferred Dimitri as he was. “How could you say that about your own brother?” Dimitri asked sadly. “If Glenn gets hurt, it would be all my fault.”

Felix hadn’t meant for Glenn to get hurt in this scenario. It almost sounded like Dimitri was speaking from experience. Maybe he was remembering his parents’ deaths. “No, I just mean… What if you’re alone? Or Glenn isn’t around?”

Dimitri sighed, and his eyes changed back, thank heaven. Felix didn’t like to see him like that at all, like something was clawing its way out of him. “I suppose… I suppose I should be ready to fight for my people, right?” He smiled, a little shaky. “I mean for all the bad he did, at least my father believed he should fight alongside his soldiers.”

“Yeah!” Felix insisted, nodding sharply. It seemed he wouldn’t lose Dimitri as a sparring partner after all. “But you’ll still never beat me!” he sniffed, puffing out his slender chest proudly.

Dimitri laughed then, genuine and bright. Something in Felix’s heart turned over. “You’re right… You’re too good, Fe,” Dimitri shook his head.

Felix didn’t know why, but he suddenly leaned close, the seriousness of his amber eyes hard and impervious to weathering. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll protect you!” he swore. “Always! You won’t ever  _ have  _ to be better than me, because I’ll always be at your side!”

Dimitri had not forgotten the talk that Glenn had with him. That one day, he’d be taking over his father’s Dukedom, and that Felix would then be Dimitri’s personal guard for the rest of his days. Honestly, it was something that both warmed him to know Felix would always be close, and chilled him to know that Felix might perish in defense of him.

“Felix,” Dimitri returned with equal sincerity as he picked up his friend’s already calloused hands. “I always want you by my side.” He kissed his knuckles like he had seen knights do for their lovers. “Promise me you won’t die before me.”

Felix knew he couldn’t make that promise. He was to be Dimitri’s guard after all. It would literally be his job to die before his King should the worst happen. But everything turned rosy and cloyingly sweet when Dimitri held his hands like this, so he made that irresponsible promise.

“I promise.”

* * *

Dimitri woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of shuffling. Panicked, he sat upright and tried to clear the sleep from his eyes, somehow making his vision even blurrier. “Glenn?” he asked the dark room, fearful.

“It’s all right, Your Majesty,” Glenn reassured him, a voice in the dark to his right. “Go back to sleep.”

Dimitri squinted as the embers of his dying fire barely lit the room. Dedue was the one moving around, dragging his feet miserably, poking at the embers with the iron.

“Dedue?” He got out of bed and shivered as his bare feet slapped the ground. He padded over to him anyway. “Dedue, what’s wrong? Are you cold?”

Dedue looked up at him and shook his head. “No.”  _ No.  _ His first word in the past two weeks. And it was in Dimitri’s language, too, although admittedly it wasn’t the most difficult word to pick up.

Dimitri tilted his head to one side. “Hungry? Hurting?”

“No.”

Dimitri had to wonder if he actually understood or if he was just saying ‘no’ on principle. “Dedue…” he crouched down beside him, watching him try to reignite the fire to no avail. “Um… I can fetch more wood if you want.”

“No need,” Dedue said, effectively doubling his Faerghus vocabulary.

Dimitri floundered in his helplessness for a while before he reached out and took Dedue’s hand tightly, clasping his smaller fist around Dedue’s on the iron poker.

“Do you want to go home? Do you want to go back to Duscur?”

Dedue didn’t answer this time. He didn’t say no.

“I’ll take you home if you want,” Dimitri promised, so soft but so honest. “I’ll go with you. We can help rebuild Duscur together.”

Did Dedue even want that? Did he want to return to ruins, knowing it would never be quite the same as it was before they came? This king--he was the son of his enemies. The son of the man who slaughtered Duscur’s children, burned their plains, and razed the villages to the dust. How could it be that Dimitri’s hand now felt so out of place anywhere but in his grip? What had he been living for? To hold his hand? Certainly anyone would agree that was foolish.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I want… to go home.”

He’d been listening to more of their language than he let on.

Six days later, the caravan with the horses, healers, and supplies for Duscur was ready to leave, and Dimitri and Dedue were going north with it. It was a heavily armed caravan now, since they were sending their little King. Felix pretended not to pout when he wasn’t allowed to come, and Ingrid had made Dimitri promise to come back safely. But Glenn was at his side, and he was not worried about anything but seeing the place where so many died again.

The heaps that had once been blazing bodies were now heaps of half-rotted, half-scorched flesh picked apart by ravenous birds. As cleansing as the fire had seemed that night, it left a horrific mess in its wake. Predictably, there were no Duscur people around. But Dimitri stopped the caravan anyway, allowing Dedue to get off.

What exactly was Dedue looking for? He was ashamed to say he didn’t even remember in which pile his sister had burned her last and become sparks. Besides, it wasn’t her body Dedue was looking for, he was sure of that. Once she was burned to the spirit world, her body was nothing. Just food for the scavengers who came.

Dimitri followed him and, at a distance, so did Glenn. It was insufferable. Dedue finally turned around and glared at them both, stopping the King in his tracks.

“Do you want us to leave you here?” Dimitri asked quietly. At Dedue’s continuing stare, he bowed his head. Who was he to command him to come with them? To not hurt himself? To value his life? For all Dimitri knew, Dedue was looking for the half a spear he’d almost killed himself with that night. But he could not make the decision for him, to live or to die. He couldn’t possibly imagine how Dedue must be feeling. And at thirteen, he shouldn’t have to. “We’ll pick you up on the way back,” he whispered, turning back to the caravan.

It continued north without Dedue.

What should he do? There was nothing but rubble to sift through, but he sifted anyway. There was no one to wander beside but the odd wolf or mangy dog who had likely escaped the carnage, only to return and find  _ this.  _ He walked the length of his village many times, searching for something that seemed impossible to find.

A reason to live, perhaps. To keep going. He hated Faerghus. He hated them all. Filthy murderers, plundering and killing, and all for what? His family, his friends, his  _ sister…  _ They were all gone. All of Dedue’s plans for the future had involved them. Could he stomach finding a new one? He doubted he could.

He wanted to hate Dimitri too. But that was harder.

When the caravan returned by nightfall, having delivered the supplies and horses to the north where the terrified remnants of Duscur still lived, it stopped to let Dimitri and Glenn off. Dedue did not make himself difficult to find, sitting in the center of the destruction. He’d spent hours there, and not a single thing had become clearer. If anything, he felt more lost.

He felt Dimitri behind him. “I will stay,” Dedue said to him, and though he spoke in his own language, in the tongue of his homeland, he knew that Dimitri would understand.

“I thought you might,” Dimitri told him gently. He called Glenn over, leading a sweet horse, a pack of rations, and a canteen of water. They were placed at Dedue’s side, the mare sniffing him curiously. “The next village is only a few hours north of here,” Dimitri told him. “I’m sure they’d be happy to take you in.”

He paused. He didn’t want to leave Dedue here. But he couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t force Dedue to come with him. Finally, he reached down one final time and brushed his hand over Dedue’s, asking permission. After a moment of hesitation, Dedue reached up, and allowed their hands to intertwine for a moment. No matter what, he would always associate holding Dimitri’s hand with the relief of watching his sister flee this world of pain.

“Goodbye,” Dimitri whispered, and squeezed his hand once, only letting it fall when Dedue was ready to let go.

When the caravan left for Faerghus, it took the King with it, but not Dedue.


	3. Childhood Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is easy for a child King, not even the ordinary. He's growing up fast and he can't stop time; but his friends seem to be growing even faster than he is.
> 
> Meanwhile, Felix has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: a BRIEF mention of sexual content, a BRIEF mention of blood, many Dimitri sobs
> 
> Feel free to follow me @Mechanist_Macha

Without Dedue, nothing changed. Everything changed.

No one held Dimitri’s hand; no one really thought to. Faerghus was a culture of deprivation and restraint, carefully cultivated to ensure that the moments of freeing oneself from restriction were special. But honestly, Dimitri hated this. He didn’t know how to ask for it, so his life kept changing and sometimes, under a table, he’d hold his own hand. But no one else but his friends knew Dedue was gone. They hadn’t even known a Duscur child to be here at all.

This wasn’t healthy. He had to find something to do with these hands, something that was more than simply gripping a weapon for the sake of his people (and Felix).

Sewing did not come easily to the young King. He watched diligently as a servant, who frequently worked to patch tears in palace uniforms, wove the needle through the thread as easily as a spider wove together a nest of silk. He was envious of her small, delicate hands; though he was only thirteen, Dimitri's body boasted every available sign that he would grow to be as large and broad as his father before him. Holding a sewing needle proved to be a task in and of itself, much less threading it and guiding it gently through the cloth. 

It was frustrating. He'd never quite noticed this incompetency in himself before. Sewing was not considered the work of a man, much less the work of a King. This, he did not understand, but all in all led to him having never been schooled in the art. When he was not attending dull meetings with adults who looked down on him or training with Felix who always beat him, Dimitri came into the room of the tailor (a busy department at all hours of the day and night) and just marveled at the intricate workings of those who embroidered. 

Embroidery was even more fascinating to him. While Dimitri could not complete even the simple act of repairing a rip without reducing a shirt to a rag, he imagined himself sewing intricate designs of dark blue and bright gold into his own garments.

His stepmother spent a lot of time here with the tailors and seamstresses, talking and laughing as she busied her hands. While she was as damaging a swordswoman as her husband, she could also create such brilliant flowers in the hem of a cape that others would marvel and sigh. Dimitri had always longed for this ability, but half the time just trying to thread a needle caused it to snap in his hands under intense concentration, a remnant of what his father had called 'the Old Magic,' passed down to Dimitri through his Blaiddyd blood. 

He did not want it, but he supposed he should be grateful. After all, it had significant advantages for him in battle. And while he was no stranger to lifting a sword, without this Old Magic that rushed through him, he would have been knocked aside by the trained soldier that almost killed Dedue. 

Dedue… Dimitri wondered what he was doing right then. He had left him back in Duscur, as was his wish. He had kept him alive and safe for a few weeks, but ultimately, the choice to continue living was up to him.

The choice to continue living was part of what brought Dimitri here every day, to watch them embroider. To  _ make  _ something, rather than to destroy. In the end, his mother and father had decided to throw their lives away in pursuit of mindless gain. They pursued the destruction of the innocent and themselves. But Dimitri still missed them. Still missed the way his stepmother would smile and set aside her sewing to hold him in her lap. Still missed the way his father would guide him through his history books and direct his feet in swordplay.

"Your Majesty," one girl asked sweetly. She was taller than he was, so she must be older, like Sylvain, he reasoned. "You come here almost every night. Could it be that you wish to learn?" 

Dimitri looked up at the sweet-faced girl and nodded. He was embarrassed by this admission because every single bit of his upbringing told him he should be. But he wanted to, and besides, there were other men here too. Why should he not learn?

"I… do," he confessed quietly, slumping a bit in his chair, very unkingly behavior. "But learning is impossible for me. I have tried many times."

"Oh dear," she smiled, not a bit of it wavering. She somehow reminded him of cake, each bite sweeter than the last. "Well that attitude certainly won't do! We must always strive to be our best selves, shouldn't we? That means we mustn't give up, even in the face of failure."

The others who were working around them looked at her in surprise, but Dimitri couldn't fathom that she had said anything strange (more likely, they just didn't think she should be approaching the King so boldly). He looked up at her and thought that what she said made sense, and she was older and she was gentle, which drew him in like she was his stepmother. Well, perhaps an older sister. She was far too young to be his stepmother.

She held out a needle for him. "Have you threaded it before?" 

"Um…" he started, already hesitant. "Once. But then the thread fell out and I couldn't fix it again." He blushed a little scarlet as if he hadn't meant to tell her that. But she was only smiling. 

"That's okay. It can be quite difficult, even for someone experienced. Let me show you a trick," she offered, and gave the thin thread a little bit of a loop and kissed her fingers to dampen the frayed edges. "That should make it easier. Give it a try!" Under her tender gaze, Dimitri fumbled to thread a needle, astounded with her patience when it took him minutes to perform this simple feat;  _ unfailingly _ patient, a fact he found rather soothing. And when he had finally done it, she gave a little clap of her hands in excitement for him. "Oh, what a good job! It will become easier, Your Majesty, I promise. Just stick with it, and you'll be a natural in no time!" 

That was how he came to befriend Mercedes. Three or four times a week, just before dinner, the young King came down to the mending room (with the ever-watchful Glenn) and listened to her talk away as she taught him to sew. She had come to the palace with her mother and brother, and was learning to become a priestess. She spoke an awful lot of the kindness of mother earth and the sweetness of her younger brother, whom Dimitri had not met. And he listened. He didn't have much interesting to tell her, but in this way, she filled a strange void for him, one he wasn't aware he possessed. 

She acted like a big sister, which was sort of like a stepmother, he supposed, only without any of the scolding. He didn't need it anyway; for a king, he was rather obedient to her, and even though she had no practical authority over him, she acted like she did in the best way. It was never demanding or authoritarian, just an unobtrusive and guiding hand in a way that Patricia and Lambert had never been for him. Mercedes would even kiss his forehead and tell him what a good job he did every time, no matter how ugly his work was or when he snapped no less than  _ five  _ sewing needles and two pairs of scissors in one night. And she never took the tools away from him, never insisted she do it instead. That was the kindest thing.

It was the combination of having so much to do and the presence of his friends, old and new, that kept the grief from seeping into the confines of Dimitri’s heart. He could cry and be miserable over the loss of his parents, and he often did, but he was rarely alone, and he couldn't be left to sulk either. It was a blessing, really, even sometimes being woken with some emergency message or another, disturbing his nightmares and refusing to let them settle into the corners of his mind and make a home there.

Felix did not understand his new hobby at all. When Dimitri showed him the clumsy flower he had embroidered, he demanded to know why Dimitri was wasting his time with it instead of practicing with his sword, 'which you so obviously need.' Dimitri had cried, and Felix shut up pretty quickly after that, muttering apologies and struggling to find something to compliment about the piece before trying to soothe him with an awkward and unpracticed hug. Felix may not understand why Dimitri was sewing, but he realized that it made him happy, and that was the end of that debate.

Once or twice, Felix even went with him to the mending room to see what the fuss was about. Indeed, the activity was too boring and required too much patience for someone like Felix, who rarely liked to be seated for more than five minutes at a time. But he discovered more and more reasons why he couldn't be there anyhow. At thirteen, when his body was changing and his hormones were blossoming in uncomfortable ways, watching Dimitri focus so intently on such a gentle project was… stifling to say the least. The way he smiled when he threaded the needle on the first try, the way he tilted the soft curve of his chin while he worked, the gentle brush of his lashes as he concentrated on making a perfect flower--it was too much to bear. Felix made up many complaints about why he hated the mending room, but the truth of the matter was that he couldn't stand sitting next to Dimitri while he was being so pretty and soft and  _ perfect,  _ curse him.

"Well, I think it's great," Sylvain beamed, holding up the little square of fabric that Dimitri was practicing his stitching on. "Boys  _ and  _ girls always appreciate someone with skilled hands, Mitya. You're going to have them lined up outside the throne room when you're older," he winked. Dimitri fidgeted at the table as he took the square back; trust Sylvain to make this new hobby into some sort of effort to romance people. Of course, with the King's deep-rooted crush on Sylvain, he had stammered his way through his gratitude when Sylvain praised him. He often saw Sylvain with many others of late; young maids and other staff members who were clearly interested in him. And he was forever smiling and chatting, so charming in a way that his younger, unpresented friends just couldn't quite grasp. 

Ingrid presented first after Sylvain, which wasn't that much of a surprise. This  _ was  _ around the time that their bodies would transform. To nobody's surprise, she was a beta, much too aggressive to be an omega, but still composed and level-headed enough that alpha didn't make much sense either. Honestly, she was relieved. Though to present as an alpha or an omega was rare and highly prized in different ways, she was more than happy not to be undergoing the quarterly heat or rut cycles of one or the other. 

Which made Felix's presentation that much more difficult. Despite the fact that he insisted it was no big deal and should go unnoticed in the grand scheme of things, Glenn and Rodrigue were just so proud of him presenting as an alpha that he began to avoid them as much as possible. 

Unfortunately, though Felix had been the one to say it was 'no big deal' over and over again, he stopped hanging around Dimitri as much, a sting that Dimitri never weathered properly. He supposed that Felix would want to go spend time with omegas, as alphas often did, but Felix and Sylvain started being seen together more and more, both of whom were suddenly too busy for him whenever Dimitri came around.

Ingrid remained, and Dimitri was grateful for her, but it wasn't the same. 

And as the months went by, he did  _ not  _ present. It was isolating to say the least, watching his friends grow up without him, and being left behind. Being the King didn't mean that he got any special attention from his friends, and since he'd been doing better, it seemed they thought he was over the tragic death of his parents.

Life went on, Dimitri learned, but that didn't mean their tacit rejections of his company hurt any less.

He spent less time training, and more time with Mercedes.

It was difficult to incorporate his love of competition into this new craft. When training with Felix, that rush of desire to  _ win  _ consumed him, but he was actually  _ good  _ at swinging and stabbing with a lance. Though he settled into being passably competent with needle and thread after a few months, there was no way in hell he'd be able to compete with any of them, which made it a sort of lonely sport. Of course he had Mercedes, and a few of the others talked with him as well, but the thrill of battle, of sweat and blood, had been groomed into him by his father, by Glenn and Felix--this new hobby was lacking in that department. 

He tried to sew faster, to beat himself in a race against how long it usually took him to complete a flower. But in the end, all that did was earn him more stabbed fingers and more broken needles. He tried to go slowly, to make the absolute  _ best  _ flower, but he just didn't yet have the eye for it and that ended up being very frustrating, looking at everyone else's work and seeing he was miles away from even basic competency. So he tried to make the most creative designs. Most of the time it was a waste of good thread and the entire piece ended up very garish and rainbow in the worst way. 

Mercedes tried to console him, to explain that competition could not be forcibly injected into every craft. "And after all, it's only been a few months," she said gently. "You're not quite there yet."

For a while after that, he stopped sewing. His hands sort of ached anyway from repeat stabbings in the pads of his thumbs. In what little free time he had, he would read with Ingrid or ask her to spar. She was always willing, of course, but while he was no match for her on horseback, the Old Magic would always flare up and he'd end up hurting her. After a few close calls, he decided it was not worth it, to hurt his dear friend for the sake of something fulfilling.

It wasn't as though the Old Magic didn't take over him when sparring with Felix, but Felix used a sword, was quick and dexterous, able to get away every single time. Dimitri had never once hurt him. And besides, Felix had Old Magic of his own coursing through his veins, and it aided him in many ways, making him swifter and more agile. It was even more powerful than Dimitri’s, Glenn once remarked with no small amount of pride.

Dimitri missed them, missed when Felix would wait outside the throne room and drag him to the training grounds. He missed when Sylvain would hang out with him at mealtimes and tease him, even if it hit too close to the mark more than half the time. Becoming King hadn't stopped them from from being around him; their own damned maturation had. He couldn't blame them for that, and he didn't, but he was so, so lonely. So unfulfilled. He kept wishing for his body to change, lying awake and  _ willing  _ it to transform, for his hormones to take over and make something happen. At least  _ then  _ he'd have something to talk about with them, the excuse of asking questions about their own experiences. Because lately, when he asked Felix if he wanted to spar or asked Sylvain if he wanted to get something to eat, they were both 'too busy.'

Too busy with what? If he was the King and  _ he _ could find time, why couldn't they?

He found out in the worst way what kept them back from being near him. He had made his way to the training grounds, hoping maybe to catch Felix there. After all, Felix often responded to his requests with 'I've already finished training,' so maybe if he went a little earlier, he could catch them.

Glenn had stopped in the hallway to chat with a knight and Dimitri had gone on ahead. Glenn was usually a stickler for being  _ right  _ by his side at all times (even purchasing an expensive arcane artifact, a ring which deprived his body of exhaustion), but in the past few weeks, he'd relaxed a little bit. Nothing untoward had happened and the Kingdom was settling down again, rebuilding itself in new interests now that their sons and daughters were not being sent off to battle at any given moment.

Dimitri stepped onto the training grounds. This one, the one he knew, was private, for the nobles and the Knights. Soldiers and other warriors trained out near the barracks and were never empty, but Dimitri often found himself alone here (not the least of which was because someone who might be training left quickly when he arrived). But he heard something strange in the armory shed, the sound of a heavy breathing. He didn't understand what he was hearing, he didn't know, and thinking someone wounded, he rushed over and threw the door open.

Both Sylvain and Felix were tucked inside amongst the wooden training weapons and padded armors, half-undressed, with Sylvain's big hand shoved into Felix's breeches. Dimitri had run away after that, mumbling a horrified apology, not even really understanding what he saw until he was lying in bed with his head stuffed under a pillow and sobbing with frustration.

That was when he learned that they had been making excuses not to spend time with him. They were  _ avoiding  _ him. Avoiding him so that they could go off together and explore each other.

His gut twisted and burned. He tried to make all sorts of excuses that what they were doing was wrong. That they were  _ both  _ alphas, and men besides, and being in the training shed, and impropriety, and  _ how dare they?  _

But the truth of it was that he was jealous, and he knew it. Not for the first time, he gritted his teeth in the mirror, praying to see fangs or facial hair. He clenched his fists around his waist so hard while lying in bed, just  _ begging  _ for something to happen, for his body to wake up from dormancy, for hormones to start up and do  _ something.  _

Of course, nothing happened except that Glenn asked for the umpteenth time if he was ill and didn't seem to understand that he was trying to push his secondary gender out of him.

Dimitri lay awake trying not to cry.

Before dawn, Sylvain showed up at his door, and bewildering as that was, Dimitri was happy, was eager to see his old friend, and swore he'd do anything Sylvain wanted, even pull a heinous prank if he asked. 

As it turned out, Sylvain was there to sheepishly beg Dimitri not to tell either his or Felix's fathers about what he'd seen (causing Glenn to start forward in confusion).

Dimitri stared at him, still in his nightclothes, from beyond the threshold of his door.

"Are you  _ serious?" _ It just ejected from his mouth without him even meaning to say anything. Sylvain flinched, he  _ flinched  _ from him, something he had never done before, and somehow, a beast which curled in the depths of Dimitri's stomach began to grow and snarl. 

"L-look," Sylvain sputtered hastily. "It was an accident--you weren't meant to see--we should have been more careful, and my father would butcher--" 

"I have been  _ waiting  _ to see both of my friends for two months," Dimitri growled, echoing and feeding that beast within him, "because for some reason, they refuse to be seen with me, and when you finally come, it's to ask me to keep my silence!?" 

Sylvain looked utterly cowed. He was not stupid and he was more observant than he let on. There was no way he didn't understand why Dimitri was upset, and Dimitri knew it. 

"I… I'm sorry, Mitya," Sylvain whispered, bowing his head. At the use of the cute nickname, Dimitri's beast reared back and howled with fury, as if calling him Mitya _ now _ would appease him! "Things have been sort of hectic. I-- _ we  _ shouldn't have avoided you. We just… didn't think you would understand."

And there it was. Because they had presented and Dimitri had not, he was leagues away from them. They didn't think he'd understand, and he didn't. He knew he didn't. Sylvain was right. Dimitri yearned for the attention of his friends, sometimes even dreamed of a kiss or two, but never once did he feel anything but  _ alien  _ at the thought of anything more intimate. Seeing Sylvain  _ touching  _ Felix like that twisted uneasily in his stomach. He was still a child to them, and worse, they were right.

He slammed the door in Sylvain's face, feigned ill for the day, and ignored any attempts by Glenn to talk about what had happened. He just sobbed angrily into his pillow and then, because his blood was roused with anger and grief, he tore that pillow apart with the barest touch. Sylvain, who flirted with everything that breathed would not flirt with  _ him  _ because he was just a child, even though Felix was no older than he was.

It became that then,  _ he _ was the one who avoided his friends. Sylvain tried to talk to him, to make time for him after Dimitri's outburst, but Dimitri would callously walk away without a word. He assumed that Sylvain only wanted to make nice so that he didn't tell their fathers. And as angry and hurt as he was, he didn't. In pettiness, he imagined doing so. He imagined having that power over his friends and selfishly delighted in it for a moment, but then ultimately felt awful and lonely once again.

Felix was easier to avoid, but acted so strange. There were moments, if they crossed paths, where Felix looked like he might approach him (not that Dimitri ever gave him the chance) and other times when Felix was like a phantom, elusive and unseen for days on end. And still, Dimitri remained a child. His body stubbornly refused to cave to his pleas for change, and for many wild moments, he was afraid he'd be a child forever.

It was therefore a blessing in disguise that he was not given any time to wallow in such things.

"Almyra?" he asked Tarim quietly at the next morning's council meeting. "They… seek trade with Faerghus?"

Tarim nodded with such vibrant excitement, she looked like she was liable to fall off her chair. She shuffled her papers with nervous energy. "Yes, Your Majesty! This is the first time in over six  _ decades  _ that they've reached out to Faerghus. In the time of King Lambert and King Alexander before him, they had sworn off all relations with us."

"Am I supposed to guess why?" Dimitri asked a bit wearily. He wanted to be excited, but it sort of just confirmed that which he feared most; that his forefathers were more of the brutish, military type than peaceful or compassionate.

Tarim seemed to pick up his mood and sobered instantly, her eagerness appropriately tempered. "Ah, well… it, uh, seems that they… were worried that their trade caravans might be, ah… attacked by thieves and the like…"

Dimitri dismissed the feeble explanation. He understood. In the past few weeks since he'd assumed the throne, his tutors had been replaced from ones meant to teach simple arithmetic, history, and sciences to a young  _ prince,  _ and their roles had been assumed by the council; to advise on economy, military strategy, and sociology. He knew now that the reason for the abundance of thieves and pillagers in Faerghus was not 'a failing of the hearts of men' as his father and tutors had told him. Or rather, it was exactly correct, only the blame rested not with the thieves themselves, but with the lords who were supposed to take care of them. 

As Dimitri sat through visits from his lords and ladies from all across Faerghus, there to give him coronation gifts and pledge their loyalty, he became aware at the sheer disparity of his people's personal wealth. He was given fine jewelry, horses, and extravagant, rare wine and foods from his lords, but when the actual people desired to show their loyalty, they brought meager, paltry things that they could afford; gifts that Dimitri noticed were quite poorly made or poor in sum, but which seemed to be a heavy tithe from those who gave them.

He remembered an old woman, tears in her eyes, staggering into the throne room until she fell to her knees. She wept with joy that her sons would not be drafted by Dimitri and shipped to a foreign country to wage war and risk death. She offered him a wooden comb; an old thing that was carved by a lacking craftsman, but which had clearly been a treasure to her and her family, set with a single, untempered pearl. He tried to kindly return the gift; as a prince, he had combs made from porcelain and whalebone, with pearls that were milky white and perfectly smooth. To him, the comb was an ugly thing. But she insisted. She claimed that the life of her sons was worth giving up this gift and he realized that this twisted, ugly comb was a precious thing to her.

A few noble ladies had twittered behind the woman's back, saying aloud exactly what Dimitri had been thinking. That such a gift was unfit for a pig's curly tail, let alone a King.

He kept it on his bedside table. He never used it, but it reminded him that such a thin and hungry-looking woman had kept the comb safe when she might have sold it for food, and yet gave it to him with such joy in return for letting her sons live out their days by her side in peace.

That was when he had to prune two other councilors from their positions. He had started demanding to know why the noblewomen of the court could wear rubies and silken thread while his people went hungry. Both of them had firmly cited that those fine things were marks of their station, and that the poor were simply lazy and selfish.

His council had become quite small, but Dimitri noted that the arguments became more reasonable; more about who needed what with the most immediacy, rather than just deciding who to make war on, and how should they punish farmers who couldn't pay their taxes.

"Your Majesty?" 

"Hm?" Dimitri quickly looked up at Rodrigue. He'd been thinking about that old woman again. "I am sorry, I'm afraid I am a bit tired. What did you say?" 

Rodrigue smiled kindly, always so understanding. "Your Majesty, it should be noted that the Almyran dignitaries are not yet asking to trade. They are merely interested in sending a diplomat to see if trade with us would be worthy of their time."

"I see…" He drummed his fingers a little on the chair's arm, thinking. He didn't realize it, but everyone else was inwardly thinking how cute it was when he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in contemplation. He was still so young, after all. "Do we have any records of what we traded with them sixty years ago?" 

"Your Majesty," Tarim cut in, smiling again. "At the time it was mostly fruits, nuts, and spices. Almyra has an arid climate, so we imported things like…" She checked very aged scrolls of parchment. They looked like they were falling apart. "Dates, pomegranates, turmeric, saffron, and almonds mostly."

Dimitri knew only what almonds were out of that list. "So…not necessities?" he asked, a bit worried.

Tarim paused. "Not necessities, no, Your Majesty. But they always wanted things we could afford to spare, so it was mostly excess for excess."

"Such as?" 

"Mostly furs, lumber, and steel ores," she said, checking the papers and adjusting her glasses. "If you intend to cut down on our military budget, we will have no shortage of steel to give them."

Dimitri hesitated. "Do they use it to make war?" Would it not be just as bad to  _ supply _ warmongers as it was to  _ be  _ them? 

Margrave Gautier was next to answer. He was a stiff and rather unpleasant man, too grim and too brooding by half, not at all like his second son. But he was surprisingly more reasonable in his opinions than Dimitri would have guessed, given how much he adhered to tradition. "My lord, the Almyrans use steel for practical purposes. Steel is made from iron and tin, so it is a light but strong metal. Yes, it is used primarily to make weapons and armor, but it is also used for plowshares, nails, ship parts, and other such things." He kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest, but despite his standoffish way of sitting and talking, he never once treated Dimitri like a child (not even when describing what steel  _ was,  _ which Dimitri had not known). "Besides, that was sixty years ago. Perhaps they want something different from Faerghus now."

"Thank you, Margrave," Dimitri said, extra polite and relieved. "That is good insight." He nodded to Tarim. "I would like to accept their proposal. Did they say when they would like to arrive or whom they would be sending?" 

Tarim did not need to scan the contents of the letter. She'd read it many times in her excitement. "They want to send someone in five month's time. Apparently, one of their younger princes is taking the role of diplomat, so we will need to make a welcome befitting a prince."

Dimitri nodded. Turmeric and pomegranates were not necessities, but if they could afford them, they should have them. Anything to rejuvenate the stunted Faerghus culture of solely hunting, war-making, and huddling around a fireplace in the dead of winter. Besides, he reasoned if they could sell these things from the port, it would put more money into the pockets of his citizens, and he was all for that. 

When he left the meeting, he was in high spirits. In half a year, a prince from Almyra would come, and he'd bring  _ culture  _ and  _ fun  _ to Faerghus, he hoped. He was so excited that the sudden drop of his heart from his throat to his stomach hit thrice as hard when he saw Felix waiting for him outside the chamber. 

"...hey," Felix started hesitantly. 

"Hey," Dimitri said back, suddenly remembering all his woes at once. 

They stood in terrible heavy silence for a moment too long, and then a moment after that too. Felix, who normally hated to make eye contact with anyone, was staring right at him, and Dimitri was so shocked by it that he couldn't help staring back. 

He just wanted to be  _ friends  _ again. He was so tired of being lonely and dancing around them, and avoiding them while also desperately missing them. "Do you want to spar?" he asked quietly, just to say something, pushing the words out in a mumble as if he could pretend he'd said something else in the face of refusal. Felix wasn't talking anyway, and it struck Dimitri that he  _ might  _ have been waiting for his father or for Glenn and not him at all, but--

"Sure," Felix nodded, and he looked himself a little relieved, as if he had been going to ask the same but couldn't find the words. "But…dinner, first?" he asked. 

"Oh, uh… yes. Of course."

As usual, Felix did not eat. But he watched Dimitri do so with a strangely intense eye that Dimitri was too nervous to question. He didn't say a word during, and when they walked to the training grounds together, he didn't say a word then either. Dimitri was just wondering if this was some sort of test that he was failing, that Felix was giving him a solemn sort of trial and that he was doomed to lose him as a friend forever. But then, he opened the shed where Dimitri had found Felix and Sylvain together, and the King couldn't hold back anymore. 

"I didn't tell anyone," he muttered softly, his cheeks burning with shame. He had to speak quietly, or Glenn, not twenty yards away, would take note. "I swear I didn't." Maybe  _ this  _ was the test? 

"I know." And Felix sounded so certain, so trusting, that Dimitri had to look up in relief and astonishment as Felix pushed a training sword into his hand. "You're not a snitch," Felix frowned, as if offended Dimitri would have assumed he believed otherwise. "Now come on. Your swordwork needs practicing."

It was so  _ normal,  _ it wasn't fair. Dimitri fumbled with the sword, much more used to the heft and balance of a longer weapon, and Felix would scoff and correct him. Chastise him lightly, only just on the side of rude. And when Dimitri hurt himself, or got a particularly vicious bruise from Felix, he stopped immediately and went to check on him. It was just like he used to be. Dimitri wanted this, he  _ wanted  _ things to be normal between them. He was  _ happy.  _

He should have known better. He tripped over Felix’s weapon as he sliced at his feet, stumbling instead of jumping nimbly like he was supposed to, like Felix did, and he fell--of course--on top of Felix.

It was a strange thing. One moment, he was standing and the next he was sort of airborne for half of a half of a moment, and then he was on his hands and knees, straddling Felix, staring down at him. And Felix was looking up at him, blinking, stunned from being so easily knocked over. 

And then he got angry. Felix never used to get so angry with him. But before Dimitri could even apologize, Felix shoved him off and growled, "Can't you watch where you step? You have all the grace of a wild  _ pig." _

He got to his feet far more artfully than Dimitri ever could, and started storming off. And Dimitri was just so hurt and bewildered, he didn't know how to stop him or what to say. Had he so offended Felix that he no longer wished to be friends? Not a month ago, Felix was waiting outside the throne room for Dimitri almost every day, begging to spend time with him. And now, not ten minutes into sparring, he was marching off, cursing him under his breath.

Dimitri curled up on the loose sand flooring and started to weep. He didn't  _ care  _ if it wasn't  _ Kingly  _ or  _ masculine  _ to do so. He didn't care if he looked like a  _ child.  _ He was just so weary of everything changing and somehow, he was being left behind every time. His friends hated him. His parents were dead. The one person he managed to save in Duscur had gone, leaving his hands empty and his bed cold at night. His Uncle tried to  _ kill  _ him. No one loved him. No one.

At least Glenn didn't shush him. He came to his side and pulled him into his lap and let him sob brokenly against his chest until his tunic and leathers were soaked through, rubbing Dimitri's back and not saying a word. 

He stayed in his room the next day, sending instructions to Rodrigue and Tarim to continue the meeting without him. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't leave his room. Glenn had just barely managed to draw him a bath and get him into his nightclothes and bed. He wasn't moving from there, not today. 

"Why does Felix hate me?" he asked both Glenn and the ceiling, staring absently up at the unwelcoming stone archway.

Glenn gave him the exact answer Dimitri predicted he'd give. "He doesn't hate you, he just has a lot on his mind right now."

Dimitri just rolled over. Of course Felix's brother would say that. Maybe, he thought bitterly, maybe Glenn had felt pity for him and talked Felix into spending time with Dimitri. Maybe Felix hadn't wanted to at all. After all, he had just stared at him through dinner, and then left in such a foul mood over an  _ accident.  _

Sylvain was far more tactful than Felix was, but Dimitri didn't care. Dimitri walked into the garden for some peaceful reflection two days later, and then turned right around again when he saw a picnic blanket spread on the grass beneath Sylvain. 

"Wait, wait, wait!" he heard Sylvain beg as he chased him down. "Come on, please, Mitya? I just want to talk!" 

Good, Dimitri thought. He  _ should  _ beg. "What?" he ground out, turning around and folding his arms tightly. He didn't know it then, but when he wanted to sound strict or wanted people to know of his displeasure, he had started imitating Margrave Gautier's physical mannerisms, since the man was  _ always  _ strict and displeased. It didn't escape Sylvain's notice though. He stopped dead in the hallway. 

"Your Majesty," he said, a bit more formally, half-bowing. "Please, just… can we talk? About everything?" 

"So it's just 'Your Majesty' now?" Dimitri asked with a hateful edge. "Is it because of what I am? Is it because of my stupid  _ title  _ that you hate me so much, Sylvain!?" 

Sylvain swallowed and stared down at his boots. "Of course not. I-- _ we  _ don't hate you. Not at all. I just want to talk, to  _ explain." _ He looked up at Dimitri with such pleading in his pretty eyes that Dimitri's fury melted on the spot. "Please," he said once more, and Dimitri relented.

They sat on the blanket. It was summer in Faerghus, which meant it was warm enough to enjoy the outside from noon to late afternoon before it again became too chilly to be outdoors. The blue roses, of which Dimitri's stepmother had been so fond, were in bloom all around them, and though the garden had been recently tended and trimmed to perfection, Dimitri had to admit that he liked it better wild. The vines would creep up the castle stones and make it all sort of beautiful and eerie.

He picked miserably at some fish that Sylvain had packed for them. "Well?" he asked, looking up from beneath long golden bangs. "What were you going to tell me?" 

Sylvain had forced himself to eat a few bites so it wouldn't be too awkward, but he set the food aside now. Normally, he'd ease into a subject like this, but he felt Dimitri had already been suffering in the dark for too long. "I have to tell you something. About Felix." He glanced at Glenn, but the man was standing far enough away not to hear their whispers, idly patrolling around the garden hedge. 

Dimitri nodded, mimicking Sylvain's serious tone. "What is it?" 

"Please," Sylvain begged. Dimitri had never seen him do that before. He was normally so carefree and laughing. "You have to promise that you won't tell him that you know."

So this seemed to be a  _ serious  _ secret. Dimitri's eyes widened. He nodded. 

Sylvain squirmed under that blue gaze. He doubted Dimitri knew what it was like to be stared at as intensely as he was doing right now. "Felix hasn't been meaning to avoid you. He… he really  _ has  _ been struggling…"

Dimitri frowned. "Well, I'm sure he's the  _ only one,"  _ he huffed, crossing his arms once again. Sarcasm was so foreign to him that he was surprised to hear it from his own mouth.

"No, no, please listen, Mitya," Sylvain pleaded, hoping the use of his pet name might draw him back. It worked. "Felix… ever since he presented, he'd been acting a bit weird around you and, well… he told me he fancies  _ men,  _ that's why."

To be honest, this was a bit of a letdown. It was surprising, sure. Dimitri had just assumed he and Sylvain had been exploring, not seriously  _ interested  _ in one another. But it wasn't the sort of bombshell secret Dimitri had thought it was going to be. He frowned. "So? Is he afraid I'll be upset? I really don't care."

Sylvain squirmed some more. Dimitri had really never seen him so uncomfortable. "Well, you're the  _ King,  _ after all, so he's nervous."

_ What? _ Why?

"Is there…some sort of law about it?" he asked, genuinely in the dark. "I don't think the earth and sky spirits have anything in their divine word about it, but maybe an ancestor wrote out a law I could look into…" He had seen that his ancestors left damaging imprints on the world even while dead.

Sylvain wanted to shake him, the adorable little idiot. But that would almost certainly be a poor choice. "Mitya, he's not worried about the  _ law.  _ He's worried about  _ you." _

Again, utter bewilderment on Dimitri's face. "But why? I already said I don't care. He should know me better than that. If it's my image or something he's worried about, I'm already not viewed in the best light after ridding the council of Duke Richard and Count James. But really, their advice was just so  _ bad,  _ Sylvain--"

"By the fates,  _ dammit,  _ Dimitri, Felix is in love with  _ you!"  _

Dimitri certainly had a million protests to  _ that  _ assessment, not the least of which being that Felix had just compared him to a wild pig. But for some reason, when he opened his mouth, nothing fell out of it.

* * *

There was a battlefield. Felix had, being thirteen, only ever seen the aftermath, when soldiers had already piled the bodies into neat rows and covered them in preparation for burial. But no, this one was  _ live,  _ as in, there were still people living on it. Screaming, shouting, and crossing blades. It was awful, but he was somehow removed from it. He heard the noise, he saw the smoke and fire, but it was as if he were watching it from a high tower window. It all seemed so pointless from up here. What could they possibly be fighting over that was worth that woman cleaving a man with her axe? What conflict could hold up when the shrieks of impending death were so high and feverish? What human disagreement could be worth so much blood?

Felix loved to fight. The sweat taking over his brow, stinging in his eyes as he twisted, so fast and sharp he was a living weapon himself. He was the son of the Shield of Faerghus, and with his sword, he would fight to protect Dimitri, his King.

But that had always been  _ theory.  _ He’d never actually cut through someone. He’d never heard the muted  _ thunk  _ of a blade stoppered in a human body by the meeting of bone, the split of flesh like bursting an overripe fruit. He’d never seen rivers and rivers of blood, so thick that some of these people met their end just by slipping in it.

Yet he watched because for the life of him he could not figure out what was happening. Who were these people? The yellow, the branches of antlers emblazoned across their tabards,  _ that  _ he recognized. Soldiers of the Leicester Alliance. But who were the others, vastly superior opponents, draped in black with accents of bloody scarlet that wasn’t just blood?

Above the carnage, a flag he didn’t recognize waved. A red flag, with a black eagle--a two-headed bird, soaring in victory over this fight.

No. Over the  _ war.  _

The very moment he woke up, the symbol flew from his mind, and strive as he might to reclaim the memory, it was as dead as those soldiers had been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected excursion into Duscur leads to a *tiny* bit of reconciliation between Dimitri and his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: a made-up culture? I didn't base the culture of Duscur off anything, just sort of made it up as I went along. A teeny bit of fluff, if you squint.
> 
> Follow me for some art and chapter updates! @Mechanist_Macha

Dimitri faked a mild illness and went to bed early. Because he was King, he couldn’t very well escape a bit of a panic even if he didn’t look ill and didn’t spread the knowledge widely. Fortunately, while his servants chattered nervously, Cornelius calmly administered light healing to his stomach and his head where he said it hurt. “Some bedrest, and I am sure all will be well,” he smiled. “You don’t look pale, so it might be just a minor stomach irritation and headache.”

Dimitri wasn’t aware of the full-on investigation of the cooks, servants, and kitchen that night, searching for a possible poisoner; he had his own poison to marinate in.

There was no way that what Sylvain said could be true. Perhaps once, Dimitri might have believed it, back when Felix was always at his elbow, forever chasing him down and following him around. When they were much smaller, Felix would cry whenever he was forced to leave the capital, leave Dimitri. Now it seemed as if he didn’t care one way or another. If Felix _truly_ loved him, why would he keep his distance? It was so contrary to what Dimitri’s honest and vulnerable personality dictated that he couldn’t fathom another method of approach. Surely no one who was in _love_ with him would avoid him and even snap at him. They would act like Sylvain, flirtatious and charming.

Then again, he had never known Felix to be charming. 

He tossed and turned and thankfully he could blame the fake illness if Glenn started to worry. What did Sylvain know anyway? He was probably just trying to make him feel better. Honestly, the stomachache was becoming real, his innards so stirred up with anxiety and crushing loneliness. Glenn was kind to him, and actually spoke to him like a kid sometimes, which he needed desperately. But Dimitri wouldn’t exactly call his quiet and stoic presence _friendly._

He should be celebrating the fact that Sylvain still wanted to be near him enough to have a picnic, and even that Sylvain was kind enough to come up with a lie to soothe his fears.

But what if it wasn’t a lie? What then?

He couldn’t fake an illness forever, and he was strangely too restless in the morning to lay about in bed anyway. He needed a distraction if he couldn’t have clarification. To his credit, he made one attempt to find Felix (with courage he did not know he even possessed), only to run out of time before his daily briefings.

For these, he had to sit in the throne as the council table was set off to the side, and he _hated_ it there. Still, at least concentrating on sitting tall and straight and not fidgeting was helping to take his mind off of Felix, since the briefings were so boring they couldn’t possibly help. It began with a lot of bowing and scraping and trading of frankly pointless pleasantries since Dimitri was expected to simply nod and remain silent. He had to greet every noble in the court that way every morning, with just a calm, unsmiling bow of his head, and he truly loathed this. He was sure some of them might be interesting to actually speak with (surely there must be _some)_ but he never had the time. And yet he was expected to know many details of their daily lives and family trees and other such incredibly mundane things.

He was surprised when, after Margrave Gautier’s typical greeting, Sylvain stepped up to bow to him. Sylvain was too young to be _expected_ to greet the King, but not too young not to be allowed. But he never had. He liked to wake up much later, and not hang around the boring old throne room where all the business happened. Why was he here? He almost broke the ‘King’ character as he started in surprise, but thankfully, he caught himself and nodded politely. Did Sylvain know he was going to be expected to stand there for two hours and listen to someone read Dimitri the goings-on of the whole country? Maybe he was just here to flirt with some of the younger noblewomen.

_Or men,_ he caught himself thinking in sudden wonder. It had never occurred to him before now that Sylvain might have pursued men out of the watchful eye of his father or other disapproving nobles. But when he dared to catch Sylvain’s eye, he was standing by his father and looking right at _him._ He even shot him a smile and a knowing wink. Why? Dimitri couldn’t say, but he was grateful for the support nonetheless. He had so missed Sylvain.

“Your Majesty,” Tarim’s voice suddenly changed with surprise halfway through reading one of the briefings. “It appears a missive has arrived for you from Duscur, although… it doesn’t appear to be a formal acknowledgment of received supplies.”

Now his heart hammered for a different reason. He leaned forward, forgetting not to show eagerness. “You mean a personal letter?” he asked in alarm, eyes big and--unbeknownst to him--reflecting colors he was not born with.

Tarim nodded, holding up the parchment. It was crude and untied with ribbon or seal, just folded rather clumsily. “It is addressed for your eyes only. But don’t worry,” she quickly amended, seeing some of the council members exchange concerned looks. “We will inspect it for any arcane symbols or traps before it touches your hands.”

Dimitri bit his lip, debating. What if it was from Dedue? Who else would write to him _personally_ from Duscur? “I would like to read it now, if you don’t mind.”

Tarim stopped. “Before the inspection, my lord?”

“No no,” he said quickly. He doubted there was any magical trap contained within, but the council would throw a fit otherwise. “Can you--could you please have Cornelius inspect it while we continue the briefings?”

Sylvain, too, looked happy for him as the briefings continued. Cornelius promised Dimitri the inspection would be done in about an hour’s time, but he couldn’t keep from squirming in the duration. And yet, being King, more important business distracted him from his distraction too. “And finally, we should discuss the upcoming arrangements to meet with the Almyran Prince today at the council meeting.”

How had he almost forgotten? “Has a date been chosen?”

“Yes, my lord,” Tarim smiled. “Duke Fraldarius suggested it to be on the nineteenth of the Ethereal Moon--just before Your Majesty’s birthday.”

Rodrigue stepped forward and bowed, his old eyes twinkling with affection. He had always regarded Dimitri as one of his sons; Dimitri becoming King hadn’t changed that. “Yes, Your Majesty. I thought since the time they suggested was right around your fourteenth birthday that it might be a good idea to showcase a bit of levity--something fun to put our important guests at ease. It is tradition that grand feasts and balls are held on Kings’ birthdays, after all, and having them come discuss business the day before will hopefully allow you to relax for the celebration.”

Dimitri’s eyes filled with tears before he really understood why. It was only when Cornelius returned with the letter from Duscur (assuring that there were no curses upon it) that Dimitri knew, stepping into the hall.

A common child his age would be given a celebration with his friends. But he was King now, and the celebration would take place with stuffy foreign dignitaries and noblemen foisting expensive gifts upon him that he didn’t want. He wondered if Felix and Sylvain would even come. His parents wouldn’t be there.

His hands shook badly as he unfolded the letter and found, to his growing dismay, that it was written in what must be the Duscur language. It was lucky for him that Tarim could translate for him, although it did feel like some of his privacy was once again ripped away.

_“Greetings Lord… Highest? Highest Lord?,”_ Tarim read, squinting through her glasses. “Er… I don’t think they have a word for King, so I’m sure they meant no disrespect…” Dimitri urged her on, not caring in the least that they’d not addressed him properly. Tarim read on, _“I am Alti of the Mahish village.”_ Dimitri’s stomach knotted again. It wasn’t Dedue at all. Who was Alti? _“I have had your friend De… Dedue under my arm._ Ah, maybe they mean under their care? Ahem. _He has become well and wishes to extend a hand of friendship to you and to your home-soil, Faerghus._ Homeland, I suppose.” She looked up at Dimitri. “Do you recognize this Alti or Dedue?”

Dimitri nodded hurriedly. “Yes, Dedue is my friend,” he smiled. “Is there anything else?”

Tarim checked. “Hm… it seems that Dedue is asking permission to open a formal correspondence,” she mused, scanning the last few lines of Duscur as if it were in code. “That’s wonderful, Your Majesty! I cannot fathom that they’d want to be allies so soon after such a tragedy, but they seem to be willing to quickly put it behind them.”

Dimitri stopped to consider. He trusted Dedue, in ways only the bonding of trauma and loss can instill between two people, but it did seem perfectly strange. “Councilwoman Tarim,” he asked gently. “Are you sure that’s the perfect translation?”  
She shook her head. “No, I’m not as fluent in the Duscur tongue as I used to be, unfortunately. But I can ask some of the scribes for you.”

He nodded. “Please do.” He doubted she’d mix up the word ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’ but perhaps the formal correspondence Dedue wished for was less friendship and more _negotiation,_ something that made far more sense to him. After everything he’d seen that day, he could not imagine forgiveness, not even in a heart as warm as his. Even if Dedue decided that Faerghus was his sworn enemy, he would not begrudge him, although it would tear him up quite a bit. Honestly, it would break him into nothing, to think that Dedue would hate him. It wasn’t like Duscur could afford to wage war on Faerghus or demand recompense (though Dimitri was happy to give it). But the idea that Dedue who had lost everything, watched his entire world burn, was willing to just declare their nations friends seemed like a fanciful dream at best. Though it would be nice, wouldn’t it? To build a bridge from the remains rather than invoke any more ill will.

Building bridges, at least, seemed to be the theme of the day. They discussed the plans for the Almyran diplomat’s visit more in depth, and while there were many arguments, Dimitri couldn’t help but look towards the future with hope.

That hope hung, suspended and fragile, in the air when Dimitri arrived at the dining hall for lunch to find Ingrid and Felix awaiting him. They’d clearly just been arguing, which usually meant Ingrid had been snapping her jaws at Felix, and Felix was finally caving to whatever she demanded. Only being filled with that potential hope could spur Dimitri boldly towards them, greeting them a bit formally. “Ingrid, Felix, what a pleasant surprise.”

Felix must have leapt as many feet as he was tall. It did Dimitri no shortage of triumphs to realize that perhaps, just a hair’s breadth, he might be gaining a height advantage over him, a thing he only noticed when Felix whipped around to meet his gaze and angled his eyes slightly upwards. He wondered, would Felix quickly bolt as he had done nearly every other time they’d accidentally crossed paths lately? Honestly, he was becoming used to it.

Felix didn’t bolt, and Ingrid wasn’t even holding him back from doing so, though it seemed their whispered argument was abruptly over. “Dimitri,” he said back with a hard swallow, glaring when Ingrid stepped on his foot. Dimitri knew her well enough to see she was trying to make Felix use his proper title, and the fragile hope became more sturdy when Felix remained stubborn enough to disobey. “Eat with us.”

“Of course,” he beamed, perhaps shedding a bit too much light on them. It might be awkward, but eating with Felix and Ingrid might be nice still after listening to party planning instead of resource allocation all morning.

As it turned out, it _wasn’t_ nice. Felix kept avoiding looking at him and Ingrid kept trying to make painful small talk.

“You got a letter from Dedue?” she asked, eyes wide, and all of the sudden the small talk, thankfully, had finished. “What did it say?”

Dimitri speared some meat with a fork a bit moodily. How could Felix _still_ be acting like this, after everything? After being the one to volunteer to eat with him? “Hm? Oh… well, Tarim thinks Duscur wants to be friends with Faerghus again.” For some reason, Felix’s shifty attitude shifted Dimitri back into thinking that must not quite be the truth. “He said something about a ‘formal correspondence.’ Although…” Come to think of it, maybe it was the writer, Alti, who really wanted that and not Dedue at all.

“That’s great,” Ingrid smiled.

“Why haven’t we heard more about this?” Felix suddenly demanded.

_Maybe because you’ve been avoiding me?_ Dimitri wanted to retort, but he held it back. It was only at the sudden sting of silence that he realized he’d said it out loud.

“I… I-I mean…”

“Right.” Felix stood up sharply and Dimitri despaired. He had driven him away again, like he always did. And despite his company being more than painful lately, he still preferred it to not seeing him at all. But as Dimitri hung his head, Felix continued, now seeming to tower over him. “I wanted to say… Sorry about that.”

Stunned, Dimitri kept his gaze on his lap for a moment, mostly because he was trying desperately hard not to cry. “You mean it?” Felix hadn’t really explained himself, but honestly he didn’t expect him to. The fact that he had apologized was enough. All he wanted was for things to go back to normal. He’d be fourteen in a few months, and he didn’t want to grow up without Felix. Without any of them. Sylvain had already made his peace with Dimitri and then some, even showing up at Court today to give him a smile and a nod. He was relieved that it was not over, not coming to an end.

“Of course I mean it,” Felix said roughly, but he did not snap. “Since when did I ever say things I didn’t mean?”

“He’s right on that account,” Glenn chimed in helpfully, and Dimitri jumped, having almost forgotten he was there at all, he sometimes made his presence so quiet. Of course, that was his way as a bodyguard. Some looked intimidating enough to deter threats, and some lured the threats and took them out before they could become known.

Dimitri beamed through his tears at Felix, his way of accepting that hard-won apology, weeks and weeks of loneliness. “Then… you’re not mad? That I’m not…”

“Not what?” Felix blinked, truly confused. Had he really distanced himself because he ‘loved’ him, as Sylvain said?

“I thought it was because I… hadn’t presented,” he flushed, truly embarrassed to even say such a thing at the dining table. Ingrid hid a giggle behind her hand.

Felix went pink, something he was usually only prone to doing if Sylvain was teasing him. “What!? That has _nothing_ to do with it!” he half-shouted, drawing looks from everyone else down the long table.

“Then… why?” Dimitri asked, still smiling pleadingly. He already knew what Sylvain told him must not have been true, so what would Felix actually say?

Felix’s pink cheeks became scarlet and his eyes darted off somewhere else, amber and determined not to meet his gaze as always. “Why? I don’t know, I just…” Ingrid must have kicked him under the table because he flinched and finally sat back down. “It’s not important. Just… I’m sorry, okay?” he growled, as if daring Dimitri to ask again.

“Okay.” Dimitri was more than happy to accept it, and the energy suffusing their breathing space eased, no more tightening in their lungs. It was finally as it used to be, at last.

* * *

More good news arrived later. The scribes returned the note from Duscur, assuring Dimitri that Tarim had translated well, that they wished to open peace talks with Faerghus once again. “In their culture,” one older man supplied helpfully, “Conflicts are best solved with peaceable agreements; they prefer a healthy and usually lengthy negotiation to fighting. There are whole rituals dedicated to the debate, witnesses and neutral parties, and feasting as well. They believe no one should make such important decisions on an empty stomach when you’re more likely to be in a poor mood,” he added, chuckling to himself as though it were something ‘cute’ or ‘quaint.’

Dimitri thought it sounded like something every nation should adopt.

“So… when do they want to meet?” he asked hopefully.

The old man stroked his bearded chin. “I believe it is the duty of the aggressor to begin the peace talks, to prove that their intentions are indeed to make peace. But I don’t believe this is such a good idea, Your Highness.”

“Your _Majesty,”_ Glenn corrected quietly.

Dimitri didn’t care, cutting him off. “What? Why not?” he demanded. “Peace between Faerghus and Duscur is what we should _all_ strive for.”

The old man bowed his head, not in the least intimidated by the child King. “I don’t mean to insinuate otherwise,” he promised, placating him. “The problem is only that to follow all of their customs, as I am sure they would require, you would have to venture into Duscur with no more than one guardian and no weapons. Perhaps a translator would also be allowed…”

Dimitri didn’t hesitate. “Then I will.”

Glenn balked. “Your Majesty,” he said quickly. “I think we should heed his counsel. For a King to go unprotected into a country we recently warred with--”

“You mean _ravaged.”_

Glenn shook his head. “Even so, it wouldn’t be smart. We can’t let you go without even a weapon to defend yourself. Please, I beg of you, be reasonable.” Glenn knew that, as the King, Dimitri’s authority was nearly absolute. The council might complain and object, but no one could stop him from going if he truly was determined to go. Not even Glenn, a simple guardian he may be.

Dimitri strove to be wise. He was not even fourteen and he knew that he had many, many elders and betters who knew more than he did. He wanted their advice, he needed their guidance, but this was something upon which he would not waver.

“Glenn,” he said, turning to him with bright eyes. They had shifted in hue yet again and Glenn was startled by their clarity, like that of a hardened man’s rather than a delicate child’s. “I am not being rash,” he continued solemnly. “I am not reacting on pure feeling. Duscur is in ruins. If anything were to happen to me within their borders, they know the retribution would be swift. They must truly want these peace talks, or they wouldn’t invite that sort of trouble into their home right now.” He looked away. “It’s true that I want this more than anything. If I accomplish even one thing as King before I die, I want it to be an attempt to rebuild the friendship that my parents destroyed.”

Glenn’s sigh was tight-lipped and heavy. “Dimitri…” he breathed quietly, using his name, no doubt, in an attempt to persuade him to reconsider.

“And,” Dimitri went on regardless. “I want the idea of the peace talks made public. I want all of Faerghus talking about it. I don’t care if the gossip is good or bad. I _want_ my reputation to be the soft King.” He knew that it was never a good thing to be considered soft when one was a leader, and he hated it. Why was it so negative to desire peace, to be the first one to bow down, to be the first one to bend towards a better life for all people and the avoidance of bloodshed? He knew he was just a child, but he figured waging war must be the easy path to take for a country as large and as heavily armored as Faerghus. Making peace was not easy. “Besides,” he assured Glenn with a smile. “The more people who know, the more protection we have, right? Then all of Faerghus will know if I don’t return.”

Placating Glenn was not easy either.

“I can’t stop you,” Glenn frowned. “But I beg you to think this through.”

Dimitri turned away. Why did everyone assume he hadn’t been thinking this through since the very moment he had left that blood-stained holocaust behind?

* * *

“Are you _crazy?”_ Felix hissed.

“He must be,” Sylvain nodded, arms folded seriously against his chest. He looked like his father when he did that. “Only a madman would follow through with such a plan.”

Dimitri was ignoring them mostly, carefully folding his shirt (badly, but he insisted on packing himself, despite the many servants who tried to do it themselves) and tucking it into a leather pack. “Crazy or not, I’m going,” he shrugged. He was excited and nervous because the Duscur people may very well have decided it was better to risk revenge and do away with him. Or the negotiations might go badly. Or Dedue would hate to see him again. Regardless, nothing, not even his fears, were going to hold him back. “Besides, I’ve been to Duscur two times before.”

“One of which was an _attack,”_ Felix pointed out.

“And the other of which was with a heavily armed caravan!” Sylvain protested wildly, waving his arms. It was funny how much he could act like the Margrave and then act so totally different.

Dimitri smiled at them. “I’m glad you’re worried about me,” he said, reaching for a nicer tunic, hemmed in silver patterns. Mercedes had taken in one of his father’s old tunics and embroidered it for him, and he treasured it dearly, rejecting all other formal dress. “But I’m going to be fine. Besides, I’ve already heard all this from Glenn.”

Glenn _and_ the rest of the Kingdom. The council, the Margrave, Duke Fraldarius, many visiting lords and ladies, even commonfolk who adored him, coming in with their concerns (normally over land disputes or a plague to their cows and crops), begging him to stay and attempt the peace negotiations from here. But he would not bend, not for this. He knew, as a King, he had a responsibility to his people, but he was also a person, and a friend to a child of Duscur. Peace, he was sure, was worth ignoring the requests of the Faerghans. He had tried talking them into an understanding, attempting to get them to imagine a world in which open trade, happy relationships, and not fearing and distrusting their northern neighbors was not only possible but worthwhile.

Nothing doing. He’d spent the past month dissuading them, but he’d already sent the agreement back to Alti of Mahish. What was funny, and was something he often lay awake thinking about, was that no one even questioned the fact that Duscur seemed to have requested this, that he come alone and unguarded, when in fact they had not. Not once. The second letter Alti sent was merely a request for a date. Everyone was so sure it was Duscur’s idea. But it was _his._

He’d keep that to himself. As much as it might help the view of Duscur, he couldn’t take the arguing anymore.

Felix and Sylvain exchanged a look. “Of _course_ we’re worried,” Sylvain sighed, finally sinking onto his bed. “Please… don’t do this. I want to trust them too, but it’s too risky!” Felix nodded his firm agreement.

Dimitri stopped packing and looked up at the both of them. He was… a little happy Ingrid had gone home to Galatea temporarily. He wanted to be alone with them, honestly. His body still might insist on his childhood, but that did not stop certain feelings from blooming within him, stinging at his chest and tightening his ribs every time he saw them both, especially with others or hand in hand with one another. They might still hide from everyone else, but Dimitri knew now that the occurrence in the training shed must be more frequent than he’d guessed before. There was still this ache of envy, but as long as they both still talked to him, he could at least live with it.

He climbed onto the bed and kicked his shoes off, sighing. “You’re right. It’s risky and I might die. So maybe you could both spend my last night not reprimanding me and just tell me how much I mean to you?” Maybe it was a little selfish, but he felt he had earned some measure of selfishness after the way they’d both avoided him for so long.

Sylvain immediately relented, as Dimitri knew he would. He was so grateful for him sometimes; he worried he didn’t express it enough. “I… yeah. I mean, yeah. You know that, right? You mean the world to both of us.”

Felix huffed and looked away, embarrassed by the sudden affection spreading around the room. “Course you do,” he mumbled under his breath. “But that doesn’t make this any less stupid.”

Sylvain smiled wearily. “Hey, uh… Glenn? Can you give us the room for a minute?” Felix whipped his head around in alarm, glaring at Sylvain, wondering what he was going to do. Glenn glanced at both of them, looking tired and wary of the coming excursion, but he nodded. It wasn’t like he couldn’t trust Sylvain and his own brother, after all.

“Felix and I have something to give you,” Sylvain said, sitting up in the bed and looking down at Dimitri. “Before you go.”

“No we _don’t!”_ Felix snapped, suddenly alert and angry.

Dimitri sat up. “What is it?” he asked curiously and he couldn’t help but feel his heart pick up too, as aware of his surroundings as the rest of his senses.

“You have to close your eyes.”

With his eyes obediently closed and sitting anxiously on his bed, listening to a heated argument whispered between his two closest friends for nearly two minutes, Dimitri realized that he’d never get tired of this. How dearly he loved his friends, how much he wanted happiness for them. Happiness and peace so that they didn’t have to live through more and more tragedy, like many of them did. He was doing this for his country and for the world of course, but he was also doing it for himself, for Dedue, for Sylvain and Felix and Ingrid.

He didn’t even open his eyes when he felt Felix also shift onto the bed and two warm bodies nestled close to his. He didn’t open his eyes when, all at once, Felix and Sylvain both kissed his cheeks on either side, Sylvain’s soft and lingering, Felix’s abrupt and anxious. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

He wanted this peace to last forever.

* * *

Duscur was a beautiful place, even in the wake of fires that burned through its people. Of course, for their tiny party, everything seemed just a little threatening and the fact that they didn’t encounter any people only seemed to make that tension all the tighter. Tarim had already informed them this would be the case. With the number of Duscur citizens drastically reduced, they had all pulled back to the northern coast to band together and lean on each other for support during this tragedy. Dimitri could not blame them.  
He was unused to traveling by horseback rather than by carriage, but he had to say he liked it better. It felt nice to be out in the open, even if his backside ached every time they stopped to camp. Two nights had already passed and he was crawling with anxiety. Part of the sweat was the exertion of travel of course, but he was sure most of it was sheer terror. He’d never been anywhere with so small a guard detail, and he knew he should feel guilty wishing for a much larger force to protect him. It wasn’t as if most people had that. Glenn was more than sufficient, he chastised himself.

Still, the night sounds terrified him, as did the prospect of meeting Dedue again.

He couldn’t be sure why. Perhaps he was afraid he’d hate him now that he’d been home with his own people, lamenting the loss of his family and spawning loathsome memories of his brief trip into the Kingdom’s capital. All Dimitri had to soothe him were Tarim and Glenn, their promises that they would keep him safe no matter what, and that he had nothing to fear from the people of Duscur (although Glenn did not seem all too sure).

He also had thoughts of Felix and Sylvain to keep him warm at night. Remembering their kisses had strengthened him in a whole new way and he often found himself flushed and overwarm whenever he thought of them, although that wasn’t anything new where Sylvain was concerned. He was just surprised that feeling had spread to Felix as well. They were both so different; Sylvain was like the sun and Felix the moon in Dimitri’s eyes. He wondered if they ever thought about him that way.

Probably not.

Glenn, for his part, could only assume that Dimitri was sticking so close to him because he was afraid. He had no idea what Dimitri knew about him, knew about Duscur.

It wasn’t until the third day, more than halfway through the Duscur plains and nearing the mountains that they saw anyone at all that wasn’t a stray hunter who kept far, far away from them. It was a little village, scarcely thirty people, who looked upon the approaching horses with abject panic, despite the fact that there were only three of them and only one was armed.

Thirty _children,_ actually.

“We should stop here, Your Majesty,” Glenn motioned to Dimitri. “It will be safer than out in the wilderness.” He was already on high alert and had been since they crossed the border.

Dimitri frowned, looking out at the people scurrying away from them. “I don’t think so… I don’t want to terrify these people,” he mumbled, feeling shame settle low in his hungry belly. They’d been traveling light, so he only had a few very scant meals of dried meat and bread.

Glenn shook his head. “That’s exactly why we should stay,” he insisted, and to Dimitri’s surprise, Tarim agreed.

“Your Majesty,” she piped up from behind them. “It would be good to show them you are not a threat. And it will also give them ample time to send a messenger ahead of us so they are properly warned of our arrival.”

He ceded to their advice. There was so much to learn.

They approached while off of their horses, leading them by the reins so they didn’t seem like some tiny, charging cavalry. Seeing Dimitri up close seemed only to scare them more, but why he couldn’t guess. After all, they surely didn’t know who he was, did they? Perhaps they were scared he was some herald of yet another gruesome massacre, given his pale skin and strange eyes. Still, they sent an old man and a younger woman out to meet them.

Tarim had to translate for them, of course, but Dimitri was relieved to hear that they weren’t sending them away. He bade her not ask for food, only shelter; these people looked so thin as it was and they had lost a chunk of their farmland and hunting forests to the fires of his father.

They obliged, leading them and their thirsty horses to the building that seemed the most intact. This place, too, had been ravaged by something, but it wasn’t marked by war, not this far north. There would likely still be corpses around if that were the case. Even if it had been months, Dimitri doubted a small group of mostly elders and children could have moved and buried them all. It was just… poverty.

“This used to be a mining town,” Glenn observed as they passed a stream to let the horses drink. There was something about the landscape of Duscur that was so much more beautiful than the rigid structure of warlike Faerghus, filled with fortresses. Not that Duscur was wild. It just seemed so much more at harmony with the forests and stone chasms of the north, as if the towns had been built _before_ the forests grew around them, before the mountains rose up to shelter them. “See?” He pointed to a structure in the rock that was holding up a shaft, a tunnel of stone burrowing deep into the darkness of the earth.

“Used to be?” Dimitri asked, feeling his heart fall.

Glenn frowned, glancing around at the other wooden buildings, most of which were held up on rotten foundations and falling apart. “There must have been a landslide or… something. It hasn’t been used as one in a while.”

Tarim nodded. “It looks like the rains were too much. See how the mud leads into the mine shaft?”

Dimitri could not help but feel relieved that it had been destroyed by nature’s wrath rather than the whims of his father. He knew that part of the reason they had started this conflict had been for Duscur’s resources, precious ores and metals… even gems. All he had been told when he was younger had led him to believe that this would be a rich land, built on towers of solid stone and precious metals.

He noticed that more and more children were staring from behind the buildings to get a glimpse of them. He hoped they were just curious. When he gave them a friendly smile though, they had a tendency to scatter. He learned quickly that it was best to pretend not to see them and soon, they came upon a structure much bigger than the rest. This one _did_ have a stone fortification, at least at the bottom before using wooden planks. It was new, perhaps only a few years built, but the way it stood firmly proved that the Duscur people _knew_ what they were doing when it came to stone. They built with the stones as they were, rather than molding them into bricks and it was beautiful. He wanted to study it, and he could see that Tarim did too.

The old man and the woman who had greeted them at the edge of the village watched like sentinels from the porch of this massive building. Peeking out at them from the doors were all the children who had run away from Dimitri. It seemed to be specifically _him_ they were afraid of. Perhaps they knew after all.

“Strange-eye!” the woman huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Glenn, Tarim, and Dimitri halted at the bottom of the stone stair. So she _did_ speak some of their language after all… and who else could she be referring to but Dimitri? He was spirit-sighted after all. “You _only_ come.”

Glenn’s entire _soul_ seemed to tense up. He shook his head instinctively, but Tarim interjected with some Duscur of her own. The woman shook her head, terse in her response.

“Your Majesty,” she turned to Dimitri. “I don’t think they’ll hurt you if you go in alone. Their hospitality towards children wouldn’t permit it.”

“Absolutely _not,”_ Glenn hissed under his breath.

As usual, Dimitri was the negotiator between them. “I’m going in,” he insisted to Glenn. “I’m unarmed and it would be good for me to gain their trust, wouldn’t it?” He looked at Glenn, meeting his eyes with the determination of a stone wall. He was not going to cave on this. And without waiting for a response, he removed his satchel and lay it across the back of his sweet mare, petting her nose before ascending the steps.

Glenn _lurched_ towards him, but seemed to think better of it. He knew he should be thinking of Dimitri as his King, but he was not yet fourteen. And instead of worrying about how he’d explain any injury or death to the people of Faerghus, he was worried about how he would report it to Felix.

The woman followed Dimitri inside, casting a suspicious look at the adults he left outside. “Strange-eye,” she said once the doors had closed behind him, cutting him off from everything he knew. “What you called?”

Dimitri could not ask Tarim or Glenn for advice here, so he opted for the truth before something happened that he could not get out of. “Dimitri,” he said simply, no bells nor whistles. “And you?”

Her own eyes, bright enough, flashed brighter. _She recognized his name._ “...Syra.” She barked something at the various children who were hiding in the hallways to come out into the empty main room. There were piles of blankets in the corners, clearly meant to be laid out at night. This must be a joint sleeping room and meeting room of sorts. At Syra’s command, the children crawled from the stonework, looking sheepish and bowing their heads. Dimitri had never seen so many Duscur people in one place. Or… _alive_ anyway. With a sudden pang of his heart, he wished he could have seen Dedue there. But no, he was in Mahish, under Alti’s care as had been stated in the letter. His hands itched and fidgeted, as if expecting to be held tight, like he had.

“Children of Duscur,” Syra explained to Dimitri, as if he could not see that for himself. “We…” She paused, nose wrinkled in search of the right word. “We welcome.”

What ensued would have made any citizen of Faerghus scoff. They played a game, a sort of passing game that they offered to let Dimitri join in on. It was not much different, he theorized, than any other sport kids in his country might play, but they played it roughly and without proper equipment. All the manners in Faerghus could not be found here, the stiff collars and strict tutors absent. Instead, those with the stone, a small, shiny pebble, would be routinely tackled to the floor by girls and boys alike, even the few older children who had already presented in gender mingled together in what Dimitri could imagine all of his elders calling ‘highly inappropriate.’ And yet, he had never had so much fun.

They seemed reluctant to tackle this foreigner at first, but Dimitri soon had the pebble, which was passed around at the end of a short period to a person of the pebble-holder’s choosing. A small girl gave it to him, much to the alarm of the other children, but after a beat and a breath, he soon found himself wrestled to the ground by a girl about his age and twice his size.

Glenn would have burst all the blood vessels in his head, Dimitri was sure, seeing the King of Faerghus tackled by multiple people at once, even children, but Dimitri soon proved himself. He was strong, stronger than any of them, and under the hawklike scrutiny of Syra’s eye, he soon beat back his attackers. He was bruised, kneed in the gut and perhaps a dozen other players, but they did not hold back and neither did he. It was clear that his uncanny strength (despite his skinny frame) was a challenge to them, rather than something to fear. Even the smallest was holding onto his knees in an attempt to grapple him down.

The game stopped after an hour or so, which was a shame, given that Dimitri rarely got to have fun with people his age like this. Even Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain wouldn’t dream of wrestling now that they had passed the age where adults at home found it appropriate to do so. Especially with a _young_ _lady_ like Ingrid (never mind that she could always wrestle all three of them into submission if she wanted to no matter how hard they tried).

So he sat, grinning and panting, rubbing his sore shoulders happily, with the rest of the children as Syra stood there lecturing them in Duscur. The children listened, rapt, and would call back in unison every so often, before collapsing into giggles. After he had been passed the pebble, it seemed he was now one of them.

Water was passed around, clear and sparkling and cool, and then, a meager meal. Dimitri initially refused, knowing he had his own food in his satchel should he need, but they were insistent, even aggressive in offering it to him until he relented. It wasn’t like anything he had ever tasted, raw, crunchy tubers mostly. But they were sweet, layered in a soft cloth, and oddly filling. Like yams, but softer. He’d have to ask Dedue what they were called. Idly, he found himself wondering if Felix or Sylvain would play the pebble game with him. Or Dedue. That would be nice, to see Dedue playful after the tragedy of losing his family. After all, he’d only seen him in his despair.

Much to his delight, they got to play one more time after what appeared to be a class of some sort. They didn’t use paper or pens or anything, just listened whilst Syra spoke to them. But they were much more excitable and not scolded at all for giggling or whispering amongst themselves. Dimitri couldn’t imagine being tutored in such a massive group of nearly thirty children, ranging from ages five to fifteen. This time, he absolutely dominated the pebble game, even though he didn’t quite yet understand the rules. No one corrected him.

Syra watched over this game as well. In fact, the old man stayed out on the porch the whole time, chatting to Tarim as far as Dimitri could tell. Where were the other adults? Was this really it? Why weren’t there any parents around watching them? All of this seemed so strange. Even a town of orphans would surely have more than a few adults willing to watch over them?

It was after the second game that everyone grabbed a blanket and began choosing places on the hard floor. It was not surprising to Dimitri that there didn’t seem to be enough blankets to go around, but before he could decline one, Syra had grabbed his shoulder and thrust what appeared to be the coveted blanket into his hands, pointing at a spot near the door almost threateningly.

A little boy had begun to cry. Syra, putting them into pairs by size for the blankets, had him alone. He was the youngest, or at least the smallest, and he didn’t seem to want to have a blanket to himself. Dimitri remembered being so small, not wanting to sleep alone. Hell, he didn’t like to sleep alone now, and he was unused to a night without Glenn standing faithfully at the wall beside his bed, watching over him. But he didn’t want to leave the poor boy wanting, so he went to him and tried to offer to sleep beside him.

Syra looked offended by this, even disgusted. The other children, too, looked shocked, mortified, a silence ringing around the room. These same children who now freely played with him seemed too afraid to sleep next to him, or at least the prospect of it… but the little boy immediately stopped crying and came to his side, looking relieved. Syra seemed to be torn between letting them sleep together or pulling them apart.

“Strange-eye,” she snapped, folding her arms. “What you want with Torq?”

“Torq? Is that his name?” he asked politely, looking towards the boy at his side. “W-well… I just didn’t want him to be alone.” Had he committed some irredeemable social faux pas?

Syra narrowed her eyes, somehow suspicious of him, even though he was giving her his most innocently clueless look. He genuinely did not know what he had done to make everyone so angry, after all.

Finally, she sighed. “Great honor and trust to sleep among strangers and guests,” she pointed at him accusingly, as if he really should have known better. “...you make Torq warm,” she commanded, then stalked off to quiet the other children down. She tolerated nothing but silence at bedtime, it seemed, even after she had let them chatter freely during her lecture.

Dimitri and Torq combined their blankets, but on such a hard stone floor, Dimitri didn’t know how he was going to get any sleep. Torq, however, as cuddly as Felix had once been when they were children, snuggled right up to his side, thumb in his mouth, and was out like a light.

Syra watched Dimitri all night. As if he was going to hurt someone. He dared not put his back to her; it wasn’t because he thought she might do something, but wanted to prove that he had nothing to hide.

* * *

In the end, he didn’t get as much sleep as he thought he would after being so tired from wrestling all day, but the sleep he _did_ get was blessedly dreamless. Perhaps the warmth of actually having someone sleep next to him again was comforting, he didn’t really know. He usually had a bedroll he slept on outside to keep the hardness of the ground tolerable. Maybe he should have brought that in to share with Torq.

The morning was spent with Syra clapping her hands and snapping at everyone to get their blankets folded and put up. Dimitri hastened to obey, used to the stern commands of a teacher, but no one else seemed to take her that seriously, and she did not dole out any punishments either, much to Dimitri’s relief. He’d been boxed around the ears a few times himself by his past tutors, a fact that was not punished by his father because it was just an expected teaching method. Lambert himself got his ears boxed, and his father before that.

Syra herself looked exhausted, and Dimitri had to wonder if she was going to be replaced anytime soon.

He returned to Glenn and Tarim, both of whom had been up all night worrying about him, though for entirely unique reasons. Glenn nearly had a fit when Dimitri limped a bit to them and he had to quickly soothe his rage by explaining the game. It honestly didn’t help all that much.

“Strange-eye!” Syra stood on the porch with the rest of the children, Torq hugging her leg. “Torq give gift. You take.” Her furrowed expression proclaimed _‘or else.’_

The children waved and shouted after them as they got back on the road, with Dimitri’s new gift, a doll made out of a dried tuber, carefully in the loose pocket of his cloak.

He didn’t know why there were a group of children in the village all alone and living under one strict nanny… but he had a horrible guess.

  
  



	5. Little King, Little King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri finally meets with the elders of Duscur and some things are exactly what he expected. Others, not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None
> 
> Follow me for art/fic updates! @Mechanist_Macha

Mahish, as it turned out, was less of a village and more of a city. Dimitri supposed that it  _ could  _ be called a town, given the quaint wooden buildings, small like shacks, but there were so many  _ people  _ that he thought perhaps it might rival Fhirdiad in population size (although he hardly ever saw Fhirdiad out in force, given that there’d not been much to ‘take to the streets’ to celebrate lately). It hadn’t come upon him all at once, fortunately, or he might have found some excuse to feel woozy and uncertain. No, they had seen two people, clearly sentries even though there was no outpost or fortress or anything to defend them, waiting near the base of a mountain. They had finally come upon the mountain range, and the steep rock encircled them in an almost comforting way, Dimitri thought, like an embrace of earth where only a sliver of sky could be seen. A hiding place.

As soon as they were spotted, one of them took off on foot, faster than Dimitri had ever seen a person run. The other stood waiting with an arrow casually nocked to her bowstring, her stance tense as an iron pole even from this distance. The three horses bearing their little party were made to slow when they drew near, and Glenn maneuvered his own steed in front of Dimitri’s even while the leftover sentry had her arrow pointed carefully at the ground.

“We are envoys from Faerghus,” Glenn announced to her and just in case, Tarim dutifully translated. It was a good thing, because ‘Faerghus’ was the only word that the woman reacted to. “This is the King, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. Please let us pass.” Dimitri nodded at her in what he hoped seemed a friendly manner and tried not to stare, thinking she somehow reminded him of Ingrid with the serious set of her jaw and the strong, proud stance. Of course, with her dark skin and sunlit hair, she looked nothing like his childhood friend, but he found himself suddenly missing Ingrid so much, wishing she could be here with him.

The woman looked between the three of them, her arms so strong that she looked like she could crush Glenn flat with her bare hands, but rather than threatening, Dimitri found it to be oddly comforting, though he couldn’t place why. These were his allies, and he was relieved to see them so strong still, after all that had happened. More than allies, he hoped.  _ Friends. _

She shook her head. Glenn, his temper not altogether different from that of his little brother’s, tensed his shoulders, but before he could react, the woman let go of the bow with one hand and gestured to Glenn’s side, where he kept his blade. They had expected this, talked about it, but still, Glenn seemed reluctant to give it up. He swung his leg off the horse and cautiously removed his swordbelt, holding it out to her. He had not brought his favorite weapon, but he made it clear that it was precious to him, and that he would want it back. The woman took it ceremoniously, clearly understanding how much it took for Glenn to trust not only her, but all of the Duscur people enough not to carry a blade.

She gestured them through the winding pass between the mountains, which curved and slithered like a serpent. They could only have their horses trot here, there not being a lot of room to pull short if they needed. For some reason, the horses seemed more at ease in the mountain shadows like Dimitri, but Glenn and Tarim both were like matchsticks the whole way through; anything could set them off.

It was perhaps half an hour before they started to see people of Duscur; not sentries, none of them seemed to carry weapons, but surely some of them must be warriors, Dimitri thought, given how strong they were. By the way they stood chatting by the path, he wondered if they were waiting for  _ him.  _ That did indeed seem to be the case, for when they caught sight of their band, they would stare directly at him and turn solemn even if they were previously full of laughter and smiles. He didn’t know whether to take that as a sign that they didn’t want him here or if they were just showing him the dignity that royalty tended to receive. He found he wouldn’t have liked either answer, though one would be distinctly better than the other (not that he had the chance to ask).

They started to follow them once the horses passed, walking further behind but certainly preparing to go along. Glenn seemed to feel they were being trapped if his tension was any indication, but he didn’t say anything and he didn’t look back, which Dimitri had to be grateful for. He didn’t want the people to be nervous.

The deeper they got into the mountain pass, the more people crowded them until they could no longer even let their horses walk at a normal pace. Now walking, almost  _ wading  _ through the throng, Glenn was triply unhappy. He forced his horse close to Dimitri’s on the left side where he was most likely to be attacked, and signaled with his eyes for Tarim to hem him in on the other side. To be honest, it made Dimitri even more nervous, the way they were acting. He would have preferred, almost, to do this alone. Seeing the way the people silently followed him, close enough to reach out and touch, was a strange feeling. His father had never taken him on tours, given that he was too young for such things, except when he was newly born, and of course he didn’t remember that. Servants and staff members were always hurrying throughout the castle, but they didn’t stare at him so thoroughly, probably because they were in a rush and had work to finish; not to mention that they were used to being in his presence. He knew he certainly didn’t give off the intimidating air of his father, and he was fine with that.

What must they be thinking, he had to wonder?

It was when the pass became so dense with Duscur people and when Glenn was about to lose his temper from the potential threats that it finally gave way. It was so sudden it was alarming, the pass twisting about the side of a mountain and a burst of sunlight nearly blinded them. It was still early afternoon, bright and glaring, and Dimitri had to shield his eyes from it to even be able to adjust and see Mahish at all.

It was a little underwhelming, he supposed, given how many people there were to see only a few small buildings and then a few larger, more open structures, all of which seemed to be very old and on the verge of collapse. And the silence… the silence of a massive crowd surrounding them, nearly pushing them into the village was a little ominous. It was this fear that Dimitri had not anticipated, thinking he would only be meeting with some sort of council. Then again, that old man had mentioned a grand feast for the negotiations…

It struck him then; these people did not all live in Mahish. They were here for  _ this event.  _ He felt childish and ignorant, thinking they all lived in this tiny village together. But that feeling soon dove into the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone when he looked around and suddenly found his gaze locked with Dedue’s.

It had been months and Dimitri had no idea what awaited him behind those green eyes. Was it fury he concealed, or joy to see him? How could he be so difficult to read? Though he had not realized his own ingrained prejudices at the time, he had assumed that all Duscur people must be like him, silent, stoic, and difficult to decipher. But even with the surrounding audience of what must be thousands of people now all being silent and watching, he didn’t think they looked the same at all. He swallowed deeply, wondering why Dedue was sitting perched on a small wooden platform with a few others that looked mightily important. He didn’t think it was possible that Dedue was some sort of prince, was it? After all, Dimitri had found him lamenting the loss of his home and family in a village even smaller than this one.

Yet there he sat, off to the left of the platform with four others, all adults of varying ages, genders, and amounts of stoicism. His legs were crossed and his hair, which had grown longer since the last time Dimitri had seen him, had been shorn on the sides, a short braid barely grazing his shoulder, forming a solitary ridge on top of his head.

_ He looks so handsome  _ was the first intrusive thought that Dimitri could absolutely not silence, to his embarrassment, and for the first time since he’d arrived at the entrance of the pass, he lowered his head, his spirit-eyes, humbled by all that he was surrounded by; the sea which sparkled beyond Mahish, the mountains that protected it from invasions and elements, the flowers that covered the grassy plains, dotted the landscape like snow, and the people. Duscur’s people.

He didn’t get enough time, there was never enough time for him to simply stop and look around. As soon as they arrived at what seemed an appropriate distance from this platform, they stopped and dismounted. Dimitri felt even smaller from the ground, even more like a child, and the sweeping of his cloak (which normally helped him feel very adult) didn’t change things. He looked up at the platform now, extremely conscious of the way that Dedue was staring at him, and tried to meet the eyes of the other four members. He was too nervous, he forgot to wait for Glenn to introduce him.

“I am here,” he said a bit breathlessly, filling the void of the silence that engulfed him, as if simply responding to a summons. The letter had not commanded that he appear, had not commanded he come alone or weaponless, yet here he was, hoping to show his desire for peace by following their traditions.

Apart from Dedue, the youngest on the platform was a woman who appeared to be just a bit older than Glenn himself, yet it was she who got to her feet and stood forward to receive him. “Welcome, little King,” she spoke, voice steady and solemn, the thick accent of her people nonetheless understandable to him, thank the Goddess. It would be embarrassing if he had to ask her to stop and speak more slowly every time she opened her mouth. “I am High Chieftain Aine of Duscur,” she went on, pressing her hand across her chest and to her shoulder. “Granddaughter of the Great Warrior Mordane and the Spirit Healer Balsi.”

Dimitri bowed his head respectfully and then, blushing a bit, realized he should maybe do something more, so he bowed a bit hastily at the waist too. Glenn spoke for him. “This is King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” he said, stepping closer to the platform. “We are honored to receive your hospitality.” There was a tightness to his tone, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to call it ‘hospitality’ just yet.

Sensing the danger, Tarim added, “We are glad of this chance to repair Faerghus’ relationship with the great nation of Duscur.”

Chief Aine blinked at them and a moment passed of complete stillness where even Dimitri held his breath. “You are welcomed,” she said finally. She didn’t seem angry, more puzzled, but Dimitri didn’t know why and that terrified him, not knowing. “You are here just in time,” she said, gesturing to the sun behind her and it occurred to Dimitri that they had never specified a time other than a date and he was relieved they’d been so lucky. “It is a perfect time for introductions before a feast.”

Dimitri thought of Ingrid again, as he always did when feasts were mentioned. His eyes flicked to Dedue, who was of course watching him closely, and to his great concern, Dedue turned his chin away, as if he didn’t want to look at him.

“Thank you,” Glenn replied cautiously, a bit short.

“If there are any customs you would like us to honor,” Tarim went on, “Please do not hesitate to correct us.” Glenn shot her a warning look, but she merely ignored him. They’d grown fond of each other on the journey and they expressed it through mild antagonism and frustration which Dimitri found to be funny. He was so grateful to have her here to say the things his heart wanted to express, as if she knew what he didn’t know how to say.

Aine bowed her own head. “Allow me to introduce our elders.” She gestured at an old woman who looked as strong as the strongest man Dimitri knew, which would have to be Margrave Gautier. Even at her age, she somehow had not seemed to lose any of her muscle mass. “Great Warrior Mordane,” she gestured and the old woman bowed her head. “Spirit Healer Balsi.” The tall, thin man next to her bowed his head, his hands shaking a little bit. Was he scared or just old? Dimitri didn’t know. He was also surprised that the Chieftain had introduced herself as the daughter of what sounded to be two legends, and yet here they were, still alive. “And Reyit, my advisor.” This person, Dimitri could not tell their gender, but they were exceedingly beautiful and elegant, like a loping gazelle. They bowed their head and stared at him and Dimitri swore he might have fainted, but Aine was still talking. “And we receive you, Spirit-Eyed King, under the watchful eye of our guardian goddesses Za’ar and Oland.”

Dimitri bowed again, knowing no other way to show his respect. “Thank you. I… We are honored.” Goddess, he’d said that already, hadn’t he? Or Glenn had? He was getting tongue-tied, so nervous around all these strangers who should, by all rights, hate him dearly. “Th-this is Glenn Ambrose Fraldarius, my… my guardian. And this is Tarim, one of Faerghus’ honored councilors.” Glenn and Tarim bowed in turn, but Glenn didn’t take his eyes off of Aine, as if she might leap from the platform and attack. She was the only one standing, and it was obvious he was analyzing her intentions based on movement.

“Well then,” Reyit said, standing and shaking out a long sheet of black hair down their back. “I think it best that we move on to the negotiation table, do you not?” Their accent was not as thick, as if perhaps they had spent some time in Faerghus themselves, or somewhere else in Fódlan.

Though Aine was the Chieftain, it seemed like she was suddenly pouting, surprised. “But… the feast?” she asked.

Reyit bowed their head. “Given that no one is particularly pleased to see people of Faerghus in our homeland, it is best to get some work under our belt, is it not?” They turned their sharp-eyed gaze to Dimitri and fixed it there, unnerving, beautiful, cold. “It is better that we get this over with as soon as possible.”

Dimitri stood stock still, as if a wolf was sniffing close to him, deciding whether or not he would make a good meal. Reyit was clearly against these proceedings, and given what they said, many others of Duscur were as well. His heart plummeted low into his gut, churning with fear. He was not afraid for himself, he was afraid for the tentative, fragile bridge of peace he was hoping to build between their countries. He thought he saw Dedue twitch, but perhaps it was his imagination. How he wished to greet him, run to him… but now was not the time.

He stepped forward, his feet carrying him there before he knew what he was doing. “Please, if I may speak,” he beseeched them, and most specifically Reyit. “I know that my father, the previous King,” his throat closed, tightened with grief and guilt tangled together like vines, “He has committed violence against the Duscur people. I-- _ we  _ wish to atone for this,” he insisted, arms open and pleading. “We only want to repair our friendship in any way we can.”

The Chieftain, Aine, nodded. “This is why we receive you, Spirit-King, and--”

“No one wanted you to come,” Reyit smoothly interrupted, their eyes narrowed and their head held proudly high. “You are allowed within our borders for only two reasons.” They pointed at him, at his face and Glenn jerked forward, seeming to take this as a threat, but went ignored. “You are Spirit-blessed,” Reyit said, nearly snarling. “Why, we cannot say. But your eyes are proof enough, Spirit-King. And,” they turned and gestured at Dedue, who looked back at Dimitri, grim and quiet. “At the many days of beseeching from one of our own.”

Even in such a dire situation, a rush of gratitude flooded Dimitri so suddenly that he felt his eyes watering, nearly crying. He gazed up at Dedue with hopeful eyes, and as he did so, they flashed and changed, becoming dark with emotion. All those on the dais saw this and reacted with gasps, flinching, or sitting up in sudden alertness, especially the one they called the Spirit-Healer. Glenn, weaponless, yanked Dimitri back by the arm, putting himself in between him and what he perceived to be most dangerous to him.

“Let’s return home, Your Majesty,” he growled, arms covering as much of Dimitri as he could. “These people don’t want us here. It’s clear they have no intention of achieving peace.”

Dimitri struggled from his grip. “Please!” he begged. “W-we sent gifts, horses, food… we came with no armies or weapons!” he cried, not wanting this all to have been for naught. He looked at Dedue, pleading with him. “We mean no harm, we only want to atone!”

“You think horses and food and following our customs for one day makes up for the thousands slaughtered by Faerghus?” Reyit hissed, reaching up to a pendant they bore around their neck. Glenn shouted a warning, but it was too late. Whatever spell they cast was already out of their mouth, and after a brief flash of golden light, they were all suddenly surrounded by ghosts. Duscur people of all ages, spirits mingling with the people, the dead standing miserably among the mourning living, transparent and empty. Dimitri gasped, hiding in Glenn’s arms, terrified of this, of this shame that scalded him from the inside out, that kept him awake at night, either sobbing or paralyzed. He only wanted to make it right,  _ he only wanted to make it right. _

_ “Enough!” _

It was Dedue’s voice that cut through the dead, which banished whatever spell Reyit had cast, sending the spirits beyond to their rightful resting place, all the elders and children, disappearing forever from amongst their grieving friends and loved ones. Just like the people had begun to, Dimitri was shaking, was crying, he couldn’t help it, silent tears covering his cheeks. He hadn’t known there were so many,  _ he hadn’t known there were so many  _ and did that even matter? One was one too many, wasn’t it?

Dedue stood next to Reyit, not as tall yet (given he must be Dimitri’s age or only a bit older), but certainly on his way to being so, staring them down with some inner resolve that Dimitri had not ever seen from him, except when he announced he was going home. “I love Duscur,” he said without growling like Reyit, just stating it with fierce resolution. Dimitri only then noticed that Dedue had his hand clamped over Reyit’s wrist, stopping them from doing whatever it was they had been doing to conjure the vision, his other hand gripping the charm of a necklace he wore tightly. “With all of my heart, I love her and her people.  _ My  _ people. I have lost so much, Reyit, so much that can never be returned or replaced. But if we are to live, we  _ must  _ reach out when a hand is offered. What honor do you think there is in tormenting him when he has come here, showing us his intention to make amends? If you hurt him like this, it will appear as if we lured him here under the pretense of peace negotiations only to attack him! As if they would need another reason to strike!”

Reyit glared down at him, a child, who was clearly more level-headed than they were. They wrenched their hand free and Dedue allowed it, straightening his shoulders and keeping his eyes on them pointedly until they relented.

“Hmph.” Reyit tossed their head proudly again while Aine looked on, sort of bewildered and worried. Even her parents, the legendary warrior and healer, looked on in apprehension, clearly not wanting to intervene. Reyit stalked off the platform and pushed their way through the crowd furiously until they disappeared back through the mountain pass. Where they were going, Dimitri had no idea. It honestly looked like they were rushing to get their revenge on Faerghus single-handedly, they marched with all the purpose of an army.

Aine finally spoke in the silence that followed. “Little King,” she sighed finally, shaking her head. “It is true, there are many who would not welcome you here. Our wounds are still fresh, and even though you have been generous with your gifts, Reyit is right. There is no making up for what we suffered. Only time will cover the scar.”

Dimitri nodded, peeking out from beneath Glenn’s arms, trying to keep his face impassive now when he so, so grieved their loss. “I understand, Chief Aine. I do.”

“Good.” She pointed a staff at him with much less ferocity than Reyit had. “Then stay. Prove to us that you are better than your ancestors, that you wish to join Faerghus with Duscur in friendship and love.”

Dimitri looked up pleadingly at Glenn, who looked all too ready to scoop him up and carry him far, far away from Mahish where people might be as hostile as Reyit. True, they had not cast a physically harmful spell, but he was not willing to take chances with Dimitri’s life.

“Of course,” Aine said carefully. “You may leave if you so wish. We will not keep you prisoner here.” She raised the staff and waved it in an arc to signal them, and slowly the crowds behind Dimitri parted to reveal a path back to the pass. “But even if you are not welcomed here with open arms, it would be better to stay and fight for what you believe,” she told him, arms akimbo. “Do you not agree, little King?”

This time, Dimitri pulled free of Glenn’s grip, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and puffing up his slender chest. “I do, Chieftain Aine. I want peace. I… Faerghus does not desire it as much as I do either,” he admitted, thinking transparency to be the best approach. Only honesty could add bricks to trust, shore it up. It would take a very long time, he knew, probably long after he was dead. But he longed for it badly enough to try. To take those first, painful steps, even when he was terrified of everything around him, even if he would be adding the ghosts of the Duscur dead to the ranks of spirits that visited him at night, his father and stepmother, others he had known to be lost. “It was difficult to convince them that I should come here unarmed, without a battalion,” he told her, and seeing Dedue watching him steadily from the corner of his eye gave him the strength to continue. “But I wanted to set a good example, to come here and show that not all people of Faerghus are cruel.”

He didn’t really know what compelled him to do it. Everyone at home would be truly horrified, disgusted to show such weakness, but he didn’t care. He lowered himself to his knees and knelt before Aine, before everyone on the dais, Dedue included.

“I humbly beg forgiveness on behalf of my own people, no matter how long it may take.”

There was a whispering that shot through the crowds like a wildfire pushed by a wailing wind. But he kept his head down until Aine spoke, bidding him to raise it once more.

“Lift your head, little King,” she smiled, sounding somewhat satisfied with this apology for now. “It will take long years... But let us begin with this moment. Reyit was right about this; we must close the gap of hatred with haste.”

Dimitri, Tarim, and Glenn were swept away, their mounts taken for water and feed, themselves left without a good escape. Dimitri was still afraid, but now, as he was marched through a beautiful wood as if to his own execution, Dedue stood beside him, and that was all he could ask for in Duscur. Dedue may have been angry or hated him now, but he had proven that at least he desired peace. Dedue didn’t talk so Dimitri didn’t either, unsure what to make of the fact that he stood so close, almost protectively, but did not even glance his way. It stung, but Dimitri was still grateful, still lucky for his presence, he knew that.

And his hands… had they grown bigger? Dimitri remembered holding them, finding them so surprisingly soft. They were calloused, in truth, very rough, but the  _ way  _ Dedue had held him had been with the tenderness of someone who had held hands many times before, not a comfortable practice in Faerghus. Dimitri was likely to be quite tall if his father was any indication, and so Dedue’s hands were the only ones Dimitri had held that dwarfed his own. It was nice; he had never liked his hands, finding them too large and spindly, but Dedue made him feel small and safe, somehow.

Apparently that was all in the past. He opened his mouth to say his name once or twice, then thought better of it. He didn’t think he could handle the rejection.

It felt like eons that they walked through the trees, the Duscur people streaming behind them. They were no longer silent at least, a huge relief as they began to chatter and buzz amongst one another. Dimitri had never cared for silence. He was definitely the sort who liked to sit back and listen to pleasant conversation, which could fill even a cold castle room with the warmth of company. He hadn’t felt so much of that lately. Their talk was like the humming of a thousand bees in a breezy Faerghus summer, carrying him through the forest and out into a spacious meadow.  _ Big enough to be a battlefield,  _ his mind supplied unhelpfully, making him painfully aware of his own upbringing and how skewed it was towards violence as a means to solve one’s problems, and worse, problems between whole nations.

There were big yellow tents set up, bigger than any Dimitri had ever seen, woven with a thick fabric and fluttering in a playful wind. They were patterned with dye, designed to be pretty and festive and he couldn’t help but feel his spirits lift somewhat. There were three of them, he realized, and as he scanned the open-air coverings, he realized each seemed to have a purpose. The biggest one was full of seating, it seemed, big pillows scattered around with a few people setting up thick wooden trays in front of them, unhurried in their tasks even when they saw the crowds approaching. Another was empty but for the grass, just a big space where people could no doubt mingle. The final one was closed, smaller, and set apart from the rest. He would have to guess this was the tent where the negotiations were taking place, and he found he was right as Chief Aine began to steer them towards it.

She was the one who held the tent flap open for him and he gratefully ducked inside. Glenn and Tarim were allowed to follow with the elders, as was Dedue, but the rest of the people spread out, most murmuring amongst themselves about the proceedings, he guessed. It was the fact that he couldn’t understand him that reminded him… how had Dedue learned to speak his tongue in just a few short months? He felt like he shouldn’t ask.

Reyit was within, which was odd given that Dimitri had seen them go north to the mountain pass whereas the forest was sharply to the west. Perhaps they knew a secret way back? Some sort of warping spell? Were there two of them? He doubted he’d ever know.

The seating inside was more wooden platforms without pillows for seating. He supposed he’d just have to be very uncomfortable throughout the proceedings. He wondered how many days it would last. Perhaps it would be weeks. Months. He’d do whatever it took, no matter how exhaustive it was.

Glenn sat on one side of him, Dedue on the other as everyone else moved to their own places. Dimitri couldn’t take it anymore. “Dedue,” he said softly, peeking up shyly at him through his bangs. “Um… I… I’m happy to see you well.”

Dedue looked at him, glancing without turning his head at all, his mouth set in a firm line. He nodded. “You as well, Dimitri.” He added his name almost as an afterthought, like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all. At least he didn’t call him ‘little King.’ He didn’t say anything more though.

Dimitri swallowed. “You… you must have learned to speak Fódlan so quickly,” he tried, trying to make it sound as much a compliment as he meant it, but it just ended up sounding apologetic. Dedue should not have learned the language of his family’s butchers.

“I didn’t.” Dedue still wouldn’t look at him, why wouldn’t he face him? “This pendant is a charm,” he gestured to his throat.

“I see,” Dimitri said, suddenly quiet, drawn into himself. Dedue clearly wanted there to be peace, no doubt he had done so much to convince his people to make it happen, but he was clearly not interested in meeting with Dimitri again, not in the same way. “That’s… impressive magic,” he mumbled, turning back to the center of the tent. The entrance wasn’t guarded or anything, would people just walk in and out? And come to think of it, why was Dedue sitting on this side with himself, Glenn, and Tarim? The Duscur elders sat on the other, opposite, a grand space between them where they would talk, no doubt. He was unfamiliar with such things, having not yet participated in a court setting of any sort. As King, he was sure it would happen eventually.

Chieftain Aine had not yet sat down, standing in the middle. She waited patiently for her parents, where her mother helped her elderly father into his seat. Dimitri had a strong urge to get up and help him when he stumbled onto the dais. They didn’t even give the poor old man a pillow...

“Good people,” Aine spoke strongly, passionately, standing in a position where she could see both sides. “We normally would have feasted before entering this sacred space, but time is short, and every moment counts. And so, before we begin, swear your silence to your  _ refai,  _ your family, for that is what we will become.” Dimitri looked down at her from his own platform in surprise, honestly shocked to hear someone of Duscur call him family. Reyit looked severely unhappy about it, as if they’d been made to swallow something very sour. “Little King, you and your guests must touch your heart with your arm, your lips with your hands at the same time,” she demonstrated, drawing her arm across herself. “You will be swearing loyalty to your family,” she gestured to the whole of the tent. “You must not speak of the proceedings to anyone outside of this tent, and you are to think of us as your brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers.”

Dimitri readily agreed, mimicking the pose. “I swear it.”

“That means you must, when you leave this place, treat us as your family as well. This is binding in Duscur, but the promise remains even when you return to Faerghus, or go anywhere. It means forever more you will be our family. Our child.”

Dimitri blinked again, trying to process this. He hesitated. He wanted to agree. He wanted nothing more right now. But it was so strange, to suddenly proclaim them all as family. He doubted Reyit would want that, would they? Surely not. It didn’t even seem like Dedue wanted that.

“Little King?” Aine prompted.

“I-I swear,” he nodded.

“I swear,” Tarim said smoothly. She seemed eager to see what these negotiations might entail.

“...I swear,” Glenn finally, begrudgingly allowed.

“Then our family pact is sealed,” Aine proclaimed after all the elders had spoken their swears. Reyit, too, did not complain or hesitate, nor did Dedue. It was all so different, so weird, but… Dimitri had to admit he liked it a lot. It seemed Duscur’s unusual customs were more to his tastes than the cold, distant respect between Faerghus people. “Let us begin, then, with--mother?” Aine looked up when her mother stood suddenly, staring over at Dimitri. “What is it?”

“Now that the Spirit-King is my son,” the old woman boomed louder than a braying horse in the little tent. Dimitri noticed she and everyone but Aine were wearing the charm and he could only imagine what this must sound like in the Duscur tongue. “I don’t like seeing him so small and scared.”

She called him her son. Was it a joke? Surely she wasn’t taking the whole family bond that seriously? Glenn, too, stared at her strangely, warily (although Tarim seemed to think it was hilarious, covering her mouth discreetly).

“I understand mama,” Aine sighed. “But he still must remain on this side of the room and you on that one.”

“But he needs a hug.”

“Mama…”

Reyit was not as amused as Tarim was. “You would embrace even a son who caused so much death and destruction to our people?”

_ “He _ hasn’t,” Dedue interrupted, smooth as before. Dimitri found himself eternally grateful once more. While he could be miserable about his cold shoulder later, Dimitri was at least incredibly grateful that Dedue would stick up for him. “It was his parents, his father who gave the order to attack.”

“He was  _ there,”  _ Reyit snapped back. “You said so yourself. It was why you disappeared to Faerghus.”

Dedue did not deny it. “He was there. And he is a child.” He folded his arms resolutely across his chest, refusing to back down. “Even if a child caused a mountain to fall and crush thousands of our people, you would not blame them.”

“But they’d still be a  _ danger  _ if they caused that to happen!” Reyit insisted, slamming their hand on the platform beside them. Dimitri jumped. “We would take precautions!”

“And so we have!” Aine insisted, stopping them both from arguing further. “The little King, your  _ brother  _ now, Reyit, is here and he is unarmed. He has made himself vulnerable, knowing we might be a threat to him.” Reyit sat back but they did not shrink away, glaring between Dedue  _ and  _ Dimitri now. “And that is why,” Aine continued, turning to look at each of them in turn before resting her eyes on Dimitri’s face. “We have decided to forgo much of this process as a formality, and declare Duscur and Faerghus to be allies once more.”

Silence filled the room like smoke, heavy and oddly suffocating.

“What?” Dimitri asked before he could quite think about what had been said, breaking that quiet. “Just… just like that?” Surely it could not be that simple. He’d expected days, if not  _ weeks  _ of fighting, arguing over how many they would demand in reparations, denying his own requests, and having to reshape contracts. How could peace be so simply  _ stated  _ without being hard won in battle, even if the battle was a verbal one?

“Oh, there will still be demands from the people to help us rebuild. To be truthful,” Mordane said, grinning at him openly, bordering on a fondness that he had not seen from a parental figure in so long, not even from Rodrigue. “We came to this decision based almost entirely on trust for our fellow Duscur, if you doubt our sincerity.” She gestured her wrinkled hand to Dedue, who simply bowed his head in respect to her.

“She’s right,” her husband spoke up, his old voice quavering into a cough that Mordane patted his back through. “He argued so, so passionately on your behalf, Spirit-King.”

“Dedue told us what happened after the fires,” Aine went on, moving to crouch in front of Dimitri and Dedue’s seats side by side. “He told us of your kindness and shelter, and the kindness of your friends. He was taken into the midst of the enemy and returned to us unharmed when you stood nothing to gain by taking care of him. You saved his life, little brother.” Dimitri could not help but stare openly, alarmed by the speed of which all of this was happening. “And we decided,  _ all  _ of us,” she smiled, gesturing over her shoulder to a very grumpy but accepting Reyit, “That if you were to reveal yourself in good faith, that we would work with you.”

It was obvious even to an oblivious Dimitri that Reyit only agreed because they didn’t expect him to come unarmed.

“And you have, child,” Mordane piped up again, clearly the talkative, friendly sort. Even though her voice was loud, it was oddly comforting, like the ringing of a familiar bell. “You did not harm the children, you played with them, as Syra told us.” Syra must have sent a messenger during the night while they slept for that message to get here. It was a test, Dimitri realized now; how brazen of them to risk the lives of children when they weren’t sure of his intentions...or did they just trust Dedue that much? Dedue, a child? Was that strange? After all, no one listened to the words of children in Faerghus. “And you came without weapons, without your armies or fire… we hoped Dedue was right.”

They all turned to the young man of whom they spoke.

When he spoke, he kept his chin firmly forward, facing Aine even though it was obvious he was talking to Dimitri. “I  _ do _ consider Faerghus to be abhorrent.” Dimitri’s heart stuttered a bit at this declaration. He understood. Dedue had lost his family, his  _ real  _ ‘refai’, his mother, father, and sister. But when Dedue suddenly turned to look at him, his eyes were filled with tears, almost proud, accepting. “But you are an exception.”

Dimitri felt his own eyes sting and water, confused and happy and wistful and sad all at once. His lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say, so Dedue went on, filling that moment for him. “You offered me your hand, and pulled me out from an abyss of suffering and death, Dimitri. I hate the people of Faerghus for what they allowed to happen, even if they themselves did not take part in the killing. But if you were to rule them…” He trailed off, but there wasn’t anything more that needed to be said. Dimitri had a sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to hug him, and he  _ did _ hold back for a moment before he finally allowed it to overwhelm him. He threw his arms around the boy who had been there when they both lost so much, and for all those days afterwards, held his hand, kept him warm.

This time, Dedue did not look away. He encircled Dimitri in his own arms as well and held him once more.

  
  



End file.
